after Diana Marie Delgado
my mother taught me to appear
an opportunity
to paint my nails neatly
carry both eyes in my future
my parents, still, are married
my mother earned us a gentle
house with wind for a guest
and resentment for a central
feeling I sleep on the footsteps
of men that forget to eat
in evenings lemon trees
gather like a happy hour
my mother and I can drink
next to but never amidst
my hands are busted clocks
keeping time with a man’s shadow
this articulation is essentially
a manicure I’ve perfected
and so I warn daughters
leave them, leave them
even as they walk out the door
when I was seven my mother
taught me to cover with pink
my nails and this is the last time
without pity, we touched
Read Borjas’ “To the Woman Who Said She Could Hear My Accent.”
