That night you stood outside my door in your wet clothes
and I wanted to will your hand
I imagined you standing
alone on our covered balcony where nothing but old plants
waited to be watered. It was late—we were always late.
So I stood at that corner by the window
and watched you and your arms
hanging like filthy curtains in a motel,
the kind you keep your hands
LETISIA CRUZ is a Cuban-American poet living in Miami, Florida. She is currently earning her MFA in Creative Writing at Fairleigh Dickinson University.
Read more by Letisia Cruz
Story in the The Scrambler