Confession #1

By Anthony Flores

Once my mother drank herself away
by letting the marigold-liquid exhaust from her mouth;
her white rosary spit across callused fingers and shame
from a worn-out body and india skin.
Her slurred voice an exhaust’s backfire
of mechanical failures and mistimed confessions:
God never told her light needed to be swallowed,
and still, I would slowly enter her blue-lilac cloud,
drunken by her breath and in love.
Mama, respira, my love is me touching you
like drinking in secret to forget babosadas.
I fear a white-rosary-wrapped-pistola and still,
it is not enough to put your cocked-back fingers in
my mouth to swallow the dirty ignition: alive.

Anthony Guerra Flores is a first-year student at Carolina and an aspiring poet. Much of his current work deals with directly evoking memory and fragmented memory, the relationship between phenological experiences and cultural memory allows him to create a tapestry of poetry that showcases his life. He wishes that individuals who have had similar experiences, especially with similar identities (first-generation Latinx student) can relate and gain from his poetry.