Andres Cordoba

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

she whispers.

I feel sticky, and it crusts white on my face,

all maple sweet spit on cheeks.

My phone rings,

and unanswered,

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.