Almost Lovely

By Jessie Romero Silver

You ask me why I don’t tell you anything about myself

and I just stared at you

As the sun leaves the window

your eyes become dark again

and I can tell that you are asking a serious question



I feel myself falling

slowly into your puffy white sheets that smell of

fresh flowers, my mascara smudges

leaving a mark

and those lovely eyes are still on me

caring about something greater than the stains



While I’m staring, I need you to take a moment

and see me

Maybe I won’t notice

If you keep talking, I may see it as prolonged eye contact

I need you to look inside of me and see if there is

anything



Why when I look into yours, it’s like I am right there with you,

in those stories?



I couldn’t stop looking

for those stories



That only disappear when you are asking me a serious question



You once told me, I hate it when you look at me like that

And again today, you know I hate it when you look at me like that



Of course I was still staring

and had not said a word

Listening is an act of love,

but I wouldn’t let you hear me



Jewels

By Jessie Romero Silver


I laid out, under the sun, and asked myself: “When you yearn to be home, a feeling that can be as quickly swatted away as a fly zipping through the air, who are you thinking of? But just like a fly, when you think for a moment that it has finally flown away leaving you with only the anxieties of its return, it returns. This thought. It lies underneath you. In the threads of a blanket you stretch out on top of in the presence of the hot sun. Woven by a mother, your mother, who created this beautiful jewel toned blanket. Who after learning you no longer liked pastels tossed aside the previous unfinished 6 by 4 foot knitted masterpiece, to make way for something she knew you would treasure. She did it, not because she had to, but because she is your mother, and that's what mothers do. So when you think of home, why don't you always think of her? Her hair, that I believe was once curly like mine, is now stretched down to her waist. Straightened by the bristles of her brush every morning in the mirror, down the hall from my brother's bedroom. Straightened in such a way that I have to wonder if the bristles were not the only culprit of her lack of twists and turns and kinks and curls, but a relaxer. Something my mother has often denied. But I know my grandmother always knew what it took to be beautiful and when my mother had her children, she said, “you will do this to no child of mine.” This hair that fought back in a frizz was always tamed in two twists and secured by a tortuous colored clip on the back of her head. Was it this routine, or her dress, her talk or her tone that often mistaken her for indian, nicaraguan, dominican and never just black. Because black is too much and she was taught it was a crime to be just that. So she learned Spanish, that became her tone. So she straightened her hair. And follows the threads of herself, row by row, stitch by stitch where she comes upon a grassy hill on a sunny day. And far out, atop a pile of jewels is a girl who is now watching the sky, wondering, “who is home?” Before sitting up, staring across the hill, and saddened by the fact that when she looks in the mirror she doesn't see what is right in front of her.