Tag Archives: Ana Maria Caballero


by Ana Maria Caballero

We start the dialogue hearing the last word close itself

first vagina yawn

the mood swing is mine, ok, fine
every piece of angst
pressed again and

(you push me to avow
lack of love
pounce pounce

second vagina yawn

lack of love
is not lack of love
is a taut Wednesday
is as common as rain

(you glimpse far
down the road
you young
me suddenly old)

ok, lack of love

comprehensive vagina

positions herself and shuts up

A Girlfriend for Prufrock

by Ana Maria Caballero

A not small, not ugly, not quiet, unclumsy gal,
Prone to corners, hiccups, sauces and wine.
Occasionally invited,
But, as a guest, addressed only once and not by all.

A woman-child without absolute truths,
Inclined to sit straight, stand slumped and steal stares.
Intuitively clever
But, in delivery, too eager with wit, too late with flare.

The not-lady, not-graceful, not-charming you,
With a lonely métier she says is best left for two:
To self-involve the self-eschewed
In the hollow of a silver spoon.

The Clothesmaker

by Ana Maria Caballero

My clothes come from places that are not immediately obvious:
A forty-day South American Christmas, an attempt at youth in College, a
place of blessing turned hard.

Embroidering is slow, so I mix patience with excess and comfort.
Embroidering can be silent or loud, and it is inside and out; but it remains the
single piece of cloth I choose.

At unexpected sounds, my thread sheers a right breast pocket to gently
cinch the waist. A set of green grapes spilled from the cup of an already full