my mother never reads what i write.
she doesn’t think it worth her time.
out of hundreds and hundreds of verses
she hasn’t read a single line.
my poems are too deep, she says.
my poems make no sense.
they are crazy concoctions
of a bewildered mind,
but of course none of this in English.
in a deep Spanish tone, she just shakes her head
and wrinkles her nose in disdain
perhaps whispering a prayer to her god
that i had not been born so plain.