EMILY GONZALEZ

Emily Gonzalez is a graduate from Lehman college in the Bronx, NY. As a student she served as Managing editor of the Meridian, the college newspaper, Chief Editor of Signatures, Lehman’s literary magazine and president of Footnotes, the college literary club.

She was host of The Poet’s Say, a monthly poetry open mic in Albany that began as a small poetry discussion group at Borders Books and Music and has been a featured poet at The School of Night, Live in the Living Room, Changing Spaces and The Lark Street Book Shop open mic poetry readings as well as being featured on The Albany Poets website.

She’s had three poems published in Albany’s alternative weekly newspaper, the Metroland, wrote a monthly article for Suite101.com and has been reading and writing poetry since the age of ten.

POEMS

DEEP FRIED DREAMS ON FORDHAM ROAD
THE EPIPHANY

DEEP FRIED DREAMS ON FORDHAM ROAD

Empanadas line the streets of Fordham Road today
A “dollar and a dream”
Means riches in a fried pastry shell
Stuffed with mami-style
Seasoned meat
Chopped onions and diced peppers

Papo digs deep in his pockets
For a piece of Puerto Rico in The Bronx:

One bite takes him back to el campo
Where mami kneads fat dough paper thin
And abuela deep fries his dreams

The “D” train rumbles beneath his feet
Where passengers wax hopeful
For one more “subway series”

And they’re selling Gucci knockoffs for ten bucks in front of DR. Jays
Rolex impressionists for fifteen over by the Rainbow shop;
And in front of EZ Pickins Black Jacks and Queens waltz
On cardboard boxes with twenty-dollar bills

Taking a bite, he steps left, chewing, he steps right
Mazing through Spanish girls in tight jeans
Sandal-clad black toddlers
Clusters of baggy-jean teens
And bingo-wrought ladies
He bobs and weaves by
Shopping carts and strollers
Piragueros and beef-kabob wagons
Traffic jams and jaywalkers.

He pauses on the corner where the air whispers of;
Candy-roasted peanuts, Coney-Island-wannabe hot dogs;
Ten-for-a-dollar cedar wood, jasmine, and coconut incense;
Of
“Goddess of the Moon,
“Golden Myrrh,”
“Egyptian Musk”
and “Ambrosia” oils.

Papo closes his eyes, takes his last bite.

Weaving through that Fordham maze
He knows he’ll be back;
Before the taste fades to memory;

Before the shops close
And the hustlers pack their playing cards
Before the last Bee-Line bus takes off for the North East end of town

Before the Monorail makes its final round through The Bronx Zoo
And the sun sets behind Fordham University
Before The Botanical Gardens announces last call for picnic baskets

He knows he’ll be back
Because Empanadas line the streets of Fordham Road today
And he’s digging deep
For a piece of Puerto Rico in The Bronx.


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THE EPIPHANY

The Epiphany

The lump in my throat
bobs up and down
from the pressure of this polished cold steel
one swift motion of my lover’s hand
and my blood will gush
exploding on his black face.

I think maybe the love is gone
the honeymoon over
I think maybe I forgave too easily
excused the smashing of a bottle of beer at my feet
when we first met-
but, everyone gets angry
his apology so sweet.

I think maybe those aren’t his eyes anymore
the soft brown regarding me with love
cloaked now in black satin and flecks of boiling blood-
although my knees still tremble when he looks me in the eye
but now my bladder trembles too.

I think maybe my neighbors ought to turn their music down
I’m sure there’s music
otherwise how could they ignore my screams-
the cries of my children in the other room
you fucking bitch, I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch you’re dead!”
yeah, there must be music.

I think maybe goading him
spitting in his face
encouraging him to be a man and slice that cold steel straight across
my quivering lump
daring him to take my life
begging him to take my life
I think maybe he’s taking my bravado seriously
I think maybe this warm, wet sensation trickling down my throat
isn’t his tongue passionately stroking that spot that always gives me goose bumps.

I think maybe someone, somewhere once said “I’ll die for you”
I’m sure it wasn’t me

I think maybe I’m going to die here
while my lover kneels above my colding corpse
my blood curdling on his lips
I think maybe not everyone gets this angry.


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