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      December 8, 2018Sonnet for Thunder Lovers and Primary ColorsBrenda Cárdenas

      When Sweet Nothings Just Don’t Cut It

      You’re more than soda fizz, than sparklers lit
      for kids at play, than fireflies’ flit in sky.
      You spin around my heart and up my thigh
      with the whistle and boom of a bottle rocket.
      Baby, those other jugglers’ gigolo tricks—
      magician’s spell and mime’s unspoken sigh—
      don’t turn my head, don’t catch my ear or eye,
      but your mercury rolls in my hip pocket.
      Some women like the subtle hints, require
      a pastel touch, a whispered cry and blush,
      but not me; I am all hyperbole.
      Your howls of red, your strokes of green sapphire,
      your cayenne kiss, serrano pepper rush
      from lip to nape of knee will do for me.

      from Issue #12 - Winter 1999

      Brenda Cárdenas

      “Few books inhabited my childhood home—a dictionary, the Bible, a few encyclopedias—however, I grew up listening to an aunt, grandfather, and grandmother tell vivid stories of dancing horses, hangings, and flights form their pueblos during the Mexican Revolution or drinking at speakeasies during prohibition in the U.S.”

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