ADRIANNA ZAPATA - POEMS

Adrianna Zapata is a recent graduate from Salem State with a degree in English. She focuses her writing on life experiences & Latinx culture. She has also  had a publication with the Writers Cafe Magazine and The Adelaide Literary Magazine. She lives in Salem, Ma.

​Never Compare

Who else can be me, with hair that coils from my head,
Each strand strong, and coarse, a helmet to my mind
Each springing curl bouncing back those who don’t recognize
It’s greatness. My helmet is glossy, moisturized and impenetrable.
 
And my eyes, almond shaped, brown like the giving earth,
Eyes that squint with smiles,
Eyes called beautiful, eyes called hypnotizing under a canopy bed
Or forgiving and loving, its depths showing empathy.
 
My lips I’m told, were sculpted by Venus
Lips that bruise after giving too much
Painted a deep rose pink, and when my lips opened,
Intelligence poured out from its depths.
 
And my hips, hips one day that will bear infants,
Hips that that twist and turn and dip in dance,
Hips from my mother, and my mother's mother,
Hips that branch to thighs, strong enough to stand its ground.

Who can say, but me, that her skin can appear exposed
yet beneath my soft barrier, is a chain mail armor
To protect from arrows shot by worthless men who
Would never compare to me.

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Words I Wished My Mother Said
​

I’m sorry that your ego runs to hide when I walk in.
There you are, short and scrawny hiding in the corner.
Shameful, like your pay stubs littering the nightstand.
 
I am not the cause of your lack of motivation--
When did it become my fault you can’t find a job
Or that at thirty-five you’re not ready to commit?
 
I was not built to make you feel smart,
Or to help you become a better man,
I can't hold your hand and give you power all at once.
 
But I’ve made some stupid choices
Because of love I stop, shrink, and swallow myself,
My voice once strong, now stunted but I’m too gone to care.
 
Before long the playback of my voice is a stranger,
My words are those I don't remember, I’m changing
I don’t recognize myself in the mirrors I pass.
 
I’m too tired to be a flame, so instead I ebb.
I’m too young to be this woman, can I stop?
I’m too hurt to try again, but I will.

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The Reality of Love in your 20’s
​

My shift lets out at six, five cities away
You take 40-minute train rides after 14-hour shifts
We find time between work and sleep for a few hours each week
Our I love yous are spoken silently
Through fingertips cupped under my ear tracing circles
Through an arm gone numb under my head
Through the lacing of legs on days when we need sleep.
 
Our love can be loud sometimes because
We keep it to Thursday nights
So, we sometimes find it in the aisles of supermarkets,
with silly jokes and creaky carriages that pass by cans of tuna
Because even if love wants to spend all day in bed together
I have work in eight hours, and you need sleep before your next shift
And we have gotten good at making Thursday nights
Seem like years
 

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