Melissa Criscuolo

Mentiras

Last night: a celebration. 

People congratulating me 

for getting a story published, but not you. 

You didn’t like the way I wrote 

about you. It’s not the truth, you said. 

Son mentiras. You were so adamant 

at the restaurant, ignoring me 

like a snotty schoolgirl, refusing 

my presence, showing me your back. 

And I don’t know how you did it, 

because you’re 95 years old, but 

you were drinking shots of tequila 

or rum at the bar, dancing on tables 

(how did you get on them?), 

and climbing stairs, going specifically 

where you know you shouldn’t because you’re frail, 

and I finally got so fed up 

with your self-pity show 

that I called you out on it. This is ridiculous, 

I said, una pantalla de mierda. 

You know if you go down these stairs, 

you’ll never get back up, but no. 

You refused to listen to reason. Like always. 

So down the stairs you went,

to the floor below, downing another shot. 

Postcard From Dublin

For Matthew

Here, they don’t have skirt steak or flank steak, 

so I use strip-sirloin instead.  

As my friends watch me cook 

ropa vieja, I miss pretending 

to help you cook, imagining you slice and peel 

the onions and green peppers instead, remembering 

how your kitchen isn’t big enough for two.