in parentheses

Y. Rivera has lived in NYC and London, leading her to value the mundane in the expanse. She is an avid reader, fixated on new journalism and epic fiction. Her familial ghosts are implicit in her work, exploring the differences in the weight we are given and which we take on.

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go south

i remember the cool winters in the south bronx
salvaged only by their brightness
when the neighborhood basketball court was frosted over
so you played in your tiny kitchen
smashing a window to the ire of your
grandmother.

her star sign,
leo
her english,
broken
her factory job,
slowly killing her
feel essential to my life.
she compels me to sign a cross whenever i pass a church
like the ones she dragged you to,
like the one on your birth certificate
the name emblazoned right underneath the blank line under father

i pick up on the mantras that kept you warm,
that weave themselves into dinner table conversations.
your younger self lives in those moments,
lives in me.

i know your childhood friends better than some of my own.
their names carry a weight in my life
too heavy for ghosts of your past.
my memory holds room for:
your elementary school teachers and the girl who beat you out for valedictorian
but not a reminder when things began to go south.

the logistics of your life backup plan are engraved in my mind.
i know the nationwide gym chain you have a lifetime membership to,
planet fitness
the kind of car you have bookmarked on facebook marketplace,
a citroen
and the corner of battery park where you have told me to meet you if things go south.
it’s where you can see the empire state building and lady liberty.

you do not plan on taking me with you when things go south.

bad luck/good signs

Look at the cards you’ve been dealt.

Check that they don’t add up to thirteen – or four or nine or seven depending on where you play.
(Isn’t that the nature of fortune?
A serendipitous, fickle lover who favors the bold and brushes past the meek?
A lady of the night, drifting of into the darkness leaving behind only a trail of broken hearts in her wake.)

Tune into the radio as you drive past all the old haunts. Catch a glimpse of the familiar ghosts in the
rearview mirror and turn up the volume on a song you fell in love to at sixteen. Feel them fade away into
a spectral wisp as you reminisce on your second love, and your third and the next and the next.
Look away from the rearview and turn left on the crossroads.

Look at the signs of stores you pass by. Gaze at the neon lights and chalkboard signs, lingering behind to
see the words change, waiting for a message from the divine. Maybe (just maybe) one of them will tell
you exactly what you need to know.

Look for wisdom in all the places you can think of; find it in the places you forget.

Pull at a wishbone with such determination that you forget to make a wish. Spend your childhood tearing
through fields in search of four-leaf-clovers to no avail. Look down one day and find one by your feet.
Receive a bracelet from a loved one with a sign of protection. Look at it and let the memory of what it’s
supposed to mean get replaced by the echo of the person who gave it to you.

Look up at the moon. It’s under a bad sign. Feel lucky that you can see it anyway.

Follow the signs until you run out. Look for more.

Wolf

In my eyes, you are a shattered mirror,
Is your reflection who I will be?
Wolf at the river, you are no clearer.
Howling at the moon, at yourself, at me.

You drown me, but I know it’s a cycle
that mirrors the moon and changes the sea.
Always so cold yet you’re red-blooded still
In the face of your mask of poise, I see

Your ever-changing nature contrasts to
the facade of peace in this wild, brave land
A whelp, not a fawn in escape of you
I know I’m not brave, let me hold your hand

Your life roared and burned, please don’t burn me too
Hit me, heal me, I know you, I love you

Sweetness

You set up camp at a bus stop,
watching the throngs of people come and go,
waiting for a carriage to whisk you away.
It never arrives.
You will yearn for your lost innocence,
like Orpheus at the gates of death,
given one chance to regain your spark
under one condition – don’t look back.
You will fail.
You will await each summer,
paint it as a rebirth.
As the palette shifts from golden hues,
to copper and crimson,
you are frozen in time.
You will put your life in the hands of preordained divine timing,
yet a stopwatch is buried in your left pocket, ticking away.
A heartbeat passes and everything is right,
another comes and everything is real.
You will catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and see a familiar stranger.
You will realize, never again will the summer feel
sunset-tinged, glowing gold.
The honeysuckle growing outside
smells saccharine, feels insincere .
Nothing is sweet forever.
Nothing will be the same.

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