Three Poems – Karla Cordero

spring-snow-wallpaper-8

THIS SKIN BE

born from wolf womb. 
bowls of blood moon. 

bone know crow sob.
know moss mouth. 

know cop look. 
know oak cross 

blooms body into 
ghost fog. cold box tomb.

fold. absolve. 	      poof. 
now jukebox dove song.

 howl home god. howl home.



IN PRAISE OF SNOW  


My sister cuts construction paper 
snowflakes. Tacks each piece 

of artificial winter on cactus petals. She ignores 
rebellious needles. Brushes them off & claims

a December frost in our backyard. Over adobe walls
lizards salivate as ice cubes between our

lips are telling stories under palm trees. 
Our mother & aunts gossip through snow.

Ridiculing the neighbor’s daughter, who 
sports snow boots, the chola who got 

pregnant from a boy twice her age, in some snow. 
They giggle & blame the frost. I tell my sister 

to never have children with a man who sweats 
too much. I tell my sister it’s snowing in our kitchen.

Drink plenty of water & avoid this city’s snowmelt I say. 
Where everything sticks & stays. We make our promise over 

snow puddles. Lay our backs to the cold. We wave our 
arms & legs, escaping an avalanche snowing 

our way. We stand bathed in ice. Smile. Notice 
the ice angels fossiled into the ground & we open our eyes.
 


ORIGINS OF A CACTUS WOMAN

My clit is shotgun. 
Cocked back to man’s intention.
Brass knuckle fists. 
The whiskey shot before the bar fight.

	Dad says go see a specialist. 
	The woman-parts don’t behave female enough.
	Plays rough on the playground.
	Made the boy with a tattoo tear drop cry.
	She is a bad bitch.

My clit is butcher knife.
Anger soaked in tar paste.
Cusses at the dinner table & never apologizes.
Makes boys wash dishes in bleach-water.

	Mom lays breadcrumbs from my room to street.
	Nailed the front door.
	Bolted the windows.
	Claims her daughter was kidnapped.
	& prays Hail Marys in the bathtub. 

My clit is caution tape & murder scene.
A dozen cactus petals.
Boiling lipstick.
Vulture in pink horizon.
A dancing ballerina soaked in sulfur. 

	Sunday church says confess.
	Too much demon talk.
	Not enough holy in my step.
	Revelations tied in bra straps.

My clit is every burning match stick .
Tumbleweed laced in gun powder. 
A drought waiting for rain dance & thunder.

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About Karla Cordero

Karla Cordero is a Loft Literary Fellow and Editor of Spit Journal. Her poetry is published and forthcoming in Word Riot, Words Dance Publishing, The Acentos Review, Gutters and Alleyways Anthology and elsewhere. Her first chapbook, Grasshoppers Before Gods, is to be published in 2015 by Dancing Girl Press. You can follow her passion for performance poetry on Spit Journal. View all posts by Karla Cordero

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