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. 

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