From the green room the color
of rotted lemon,
eighteen images of the
Virgen De Guadalupe hang, stand, rest
from their post of prayer.
A black and white photograph of an
aged couple and a young girl stare, with eyes the
shape of apostrophes, tails pointing down.
The red insecticide pump stiff from disuse stands
with the empty Squirt bottles not redeemed.
Above, Jesus Christ follows, his eyes moving from
the outdated Joyería Max Calendar.
Slowly the refrigerator whirrs a hymn.
Linoleum tiles tattered from the many people
that once were, cannot rid the depressions of
heel marks, furniture, and his cane.
Only her bed remains and the suitcase hidden
underneath with family photographs, telephone bills,
and the letters from Los Estados Unidos.
She sits in the chair, eyes closed, head bent, a nasal
jolt startling her black bean eyes open.
It is still Calle San Marcos, Colonia San Vicente.
She looks up at nothing, and closes her eyes again.
Patricia Sanchez I am currently attending East Los Angeles College completing courses to transfer to a four-year college. I just started writing poetry, an area of English I used to dislike. That I won comes as a complete surprise to me, so it sort of feels like a fluke.