Poetry: Selections from Niki Perez

Sunrise

When you laughed along  

she isn’t good

enough with your family,

 

hollow-tips spun caves

inside my chest: depressions I’ve

not forgot, like the 911

 

times your cousin called me bitch

because you let him. Fuck me if

I build homes outside bars and bullshit.

 

He knows I saw you

holding hands with her. Devotedly

we made good avoiding until

 

within our shadows, a light,

rose like your laugh when I said —

I want a divorce.

Sunset

I’ve traveled deserts

as dream walkers do.

They beg, run faster,

in the wake of your worst.

 

A world I do not know

wept when you left

like a stone. She designed

better birthdays alone.

 

We didn’t share many

crowns or Christmas trees. Your grandson

wonders who you are.

I tell him you love

 

setting suns in California

where beaches forgive

mountains

before.

Niki Perez is a mom, a commercial real estate guru, and a word slayer. She makes no apologies for being an alpha female, though her sword fighting skills need practice. Once, Niki was an owl of literature and creating writing at FAU. You might find her pen in Lavender Bones, From One Line vol. 2, and Bullshit Lit Mag, among others.