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Where’d you go?
I didn’t realize you were gone until
I noticed I had lost the spring in my step.
I was knocking myself against walls.
I was tripping over the dog.
I was petting myself.
I was alone in a room
with no music and only
an Edward Hopper
painting staring back at me.
I was an L.A. woman stuck in the Midwest.
I was a Cuban woman without angry oranges.
I was a poet watching my words escape me.
I was a painter without cerulean.
I was a photographer without Kodachrome.
Mojo you left me when I walked out the door
on my husband as my cocker spaniel barked
in the backyard carrying only my baby
and a diaper bag.
You have reached the Miami police department.
I left my husband. He was violent.
Where are you?
I walked ten blocks to the nearest grocery store.
I am waiting here and not sure what to do.
We are sending a car over.
Where’d you go?
I want you in my pollo.
I want you in my tostones.
I want you in my frijoles.
I want to pour my mojo into a bottle
and take you wherever I go.
You eat it.
You eat everything.
You like it!
You really like it!
Life is a cereal Mojo.
Don’t you know?
It is packaged nicely in a rectangular box
with sometimes a surprise inside.