Cecilia Savala

The Golden Ratio

There wouldn’t be anything to say

if I’d have kept my mouth shut, 

pushed away from the table,

if I would have stayed the girl from the photos, 

girl who visited the cemetery 

and strip club the same night. 

If I’d have kept my legs in mint condition, 

buffed, if I’d have kept my legs under me, 

kept pushing, kept my weight below the poverty line, 

if I’d have kept my legs closed,

polite, crossed—forgiven, 

I’d cast a starker shadow. 

Not funny haha. 

Not in the name of the father.

Hijo, My Love Language is Letting You Win at Chess

Though when your sister is born, 

I take her knights and rooks, leave 

her queen to fend for herself. Tough love

passed down, blood in my mouth.

I would write you a poem in Spanish—mijo,

mi niño—equate god with mother. Understand 

mother means comfort (holding hands),

or it’s all her fault (pop psychology) or

epitaph (work ethic handed down).

We brush our teeth every night before bed,

me in my white dress—no husband.

This Body

underappreciated this body gets me places

last pages of consequence holder of information

conflicted processor of trigonometry and shame 

in man-made sunshine I reward 

the thinning of my face stiff upper lip that covers 

my teeth when I smile chins 

perform a disappearing act this body

unnerves me grows hair in unwelcome plains

rebels against belts enveloping elastic

this body stocks surpluses for unlikely famine