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      December 4, 2018LossesEvangeline Blanco

      Are you the woman who worked on her feet
      all day as factory forelady
      yet danced at night to a mambo beat
      and never said no
      when I wanted to go
      for a wild west movie
      or an ice cream soda?
      Time is sadistic, mother.
      It whittles the unseen molecule
      to steal, in bits, your self esteem
      by making you fearful of small activity.
      Bending is punished with spasm or swollen knee.
      It shrivels, shrinks and deafens you.
      Time is also torturing me,
      weakens my heart to reconcile
      your former smooth-skinned energy
      with what my eyes now see.
      It floods my thoughts with loss and exile,
      the vinegary taste of your mortality.

      from Issue #12 - Winter 1999

      Evangeline Blanco

      “For the brief period I remain my present self, a Puerto Rican female banker with ninety-year-old parents. My work reflects my roots, touching on the sore scabs of bigotry endured in school and the workplace. Other work is a sharing of ancestors and descendants, flashing a wry smile at love’s illusions and time’s assault on mind, body, and dignity.”

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