Another Kind of Migration
In childhood her index finger
almost touched death’s door.
She was like a decimated landscape,
but now hopes that with so much rain
the clear-cut land has recovered.
Her mother never was proud of her
even when she got chosen
as head cheerleader. Especially not
when she got kicked off after
her gym teacher told her, spit out your gum
and she did just that, at the teacher’s face.
There was never enough certainty of self.
Only dead years as she watched the soil
dry up. The unbearable thirst of no man.
She went outside to be noticed.
She slithered sideways towards men
slipping on her sweat. She met them briefly
in sunlight. Cooled by the moist forest,
she shrugged off her doubts then fell
into a frenzy of fear asking,
why do I devour myself
yet continue to grow new leaves?
She tried being the prettiest—and was—
though she didn’t believe it until looking back.
Now before the actual door, she tucks
her finger within her palm. She’s learned
from her cat that love is not a thought
but a mutual shading like a rainforest canopy.
She becomes more tender with herself
and rubs against her past with dense green moss,
giving it a softer edge. She wants to champion
herself, to take away the foliar scorching.
Vinyl Records
My best friend died. She’s
the third in the last 15 years.
I wonder if it’s only women
I’ve truly loved? Maybe it’s
because of my messy need
of men or their lack of time
to stare at rabbits leapfrogging
or read my poetry.
My best friend died,
and then her cat died.
We would have cried together.
Instead I look at the photo
I took of them, make it
the wallpaper on my phone.
I remember riding the subway
years ago and an old woman
asked to hold my hand.
I said yes. She held my hand,
and I knew she was touching
someone else. While I look
at their photo, I’m that old lady
trying to touch them. I’m older
than most people who have died.
I also know that their deaths
are an entrance to knowing
my own death.
It’s like a turntable needle
stuck in a groove of one
of my records, repeating
you too will vanish.
Carol Matos’ debut collection of poems, 'The Hush Before the Animals Attack', was published by Main Street Rag in 2013. Her poetry has appeared in 34th Parallel, Zone 3, The Comstock Review, ROOM, The Prose-Poem Project, Columbia Journal, RHINO, The Chattahoochee Review, Broad Street, Pinch, Barrelhouse, and The Potomac Review (forthcoming). She has been a semifinalist for the Spoon River Poetry Review Editors’ Prize, and a nominee for the Pushcart Poetry Prize. Formerly a professional photographer with exhibitions in New York City and Europe, she now serves as Vice President for Administration at Manhattan School of Music.
Photo by Ksenia Chernaya