Sarah A. Chavez
Halfbreed Helene Goes Outside to Cry
The pressure that wells
in her throat threatens
to choke, but this is not
the time (this is never
the time). She nods,
even though the voice
that whispers these words
is on the phone.
When gone and this morning
and I didn’t want to tell you
and no, you don’t need
to fly back yet register,
the walls of her rented
room begin to close.
What hours earlier was
spacious and airy, sun-
light like an afternoon
aura has become tight,
invisibly pressing her
ribs. It’s hard to move
toward the door, her
legs so unsteady she
stumbles, bruising a
shoulder on the jamb.
The entrance to the yard
is just off the hallway.
Rickety rotting wood porch
Soft beneath her feet. She sits
on the step, presses
her head between her knees
and tries to breath.
The voice on the other end
says something resembling
a leaving. H waits until
there is a click, like the
way phones used to signal
disconnection.
When everything is silent
save the cacophony of
birds singing in the eucalyptus
and cedar elm that ring
the yard, Helene crawls over,
eyelashes glued and glowing,
to a bare patch in the grass,
digs her fingers into the dirt
making what resembles
the bite from a large and
ravenous animal. She tilts
her head toward the hollows
ready to release whatever
might fall from her face.
Fresno Writers dot com 