El Día de Mi Muerto

an hour of work
but i am no hairdresser
falls loose too quickly

parents up above
glass ceiling meant for spying
friends hear her grievance

she flashes the look
exasperated with me
behind glass, i wave

when this is over
will i have the nice photo
or preteen ‘tude chant?

on the way to camp
my little ones’ voices sang
loving farewell chant

why can’t she stay young
choose camp over awkward dance
to throw her mom looks?

why can’t we stay young
choose love over wanton youth
and just be ourselves?





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