La Llorona Tells Me to Stop Crying

p
o
e
m
s

It’s Saturday night in America
and the trees are full of policemen again—
clinging to the upper branches,
emitting little hoots and caws

There are bloody handprints on the shoulders
of my shirts because I am out too late
pouring the river down my throat,
pretending to care when you tell me
your moon is in Cancer

Tonight I want you to be
the bathroom I cry in
more than I want us
to un-haunt this country

The shame of small desires,
little bells ringing in the loud dark

In the corner the shine
of a white dress & teeth

Play me that sad guitar song
about how you can fix me
as if I were a watch,
or an engine, or a door
to walk out through

Play me the one
where we walk through the forest
and find only trees

Cassandra de Alba is a poet living in Massachusetts. Her chapbooks habitats (Horse Less Press, 2016) and ORB (Reality Hands, 2018) are about deer and the moon, respectively. The latest, Ugly/Sad, was released by Glass Poetry Press in 2020. She is a co-host at the Boston Poetry Slam at the Cantab Lounge and an associate editor at Pizza Pi Press.

You Might Also Enjoy

Jemima Spits

Jabari Asim

Fool had ten thousand acres but needed my ass to make it complete. He rubbed me like a good luck charm and I poisoned his pancakes.

poems

Penance

Tara Skurtu

But it was I who held your arm as the three gravediggers hammered your father’s narrow coffin shut.

poems

Denouement

Denise Duhamel

When I was a teenager, I made her the enemy.
She worked third shift and after my father and sister
drifted to sleep,. . .

poems

Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.