Proper Nouns
by Natasha Rodriguez
in the morning when I wake
my hair tangles in vines
against my body and sheets;
in the mirror my eyes are empty cups
where red roots sprout
this, after much of the night
spent huddled over papers—
a pauper-girl curling into the heat
that poured over my pen, grateful
for mercy of any kind
in this ever-cold winter
i was trying to forget your name,
you know. i was writing a letter
to memory—it said stop, please.
this has gone on long enough.
but like my mother, memory
does not listen. she sends
phantoms wearing your face
to haunt my rest, and still
my tongue tastes the syllables
i murmured in sleep—lingering,
long after i rinse my mouth.
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