Breakfast in Marblehead
I duck my mother’s call as the
Jet Blue cuts the sky
perforated by clouds.
Two coats lie dead on my shoulders,
and everything I touch seems to
either keep me warm or hang listless
as I ignore the call from my mother.
When the sunlight bleeds down chest
because the shades were
left slack jawed and
in awe of every lactic acid shiver
and the mini strokes had in sleep.
my face drips now, steadily, and freshly squeezed
orange juice with waffles and my mom’s mumbles
stroking small strands out of my eyes
while her chin lies in her hand so her head rises every time
I feel sticky, and it crusts white on my face,
all maple sweet spit on cheeks.
My phone rings,
I wonder how the message machine sounds
to people overhead.
Andres Cordoba is a SUNY Purchase student with big dreams and small hands. His doctor said they’re not that small, but Andres knows better.