Andrés López
the little White *
Like Mother predicts
a second winter
a highway of ice
a snow squall,
I predict the unknown –
the little White *
the woolly aphid.
The infestation of
whiteflies come June.
Air-tunnel smugglers
swoosh open a passage,
and the flurry enters unnamed,
un-asked for.
But, with certainty
enters paradise
and claims it as theirs.
I was not surprised.
These bundles of white
bunch together
into a blimp that surveys us
with watchful eye
for the rest of our years.
Enovid on Tap
You fashion a weapon
as an organ
that breathes for all
pumps us full
of silver, of shell casings
of warmth–
bust a hole through my groin
and kiss a tip that screams
in a love language
unknown to you.
Ripping curls from teeth
becomes a benediction
and you tell me
‘satisfaction
is something to wait for.’
I have been trained
to gargle on something
that tastes like indifference
tastes like the cut-up hands
of field workers
tastes of Enovid
mixed with corn syrup.
Inconspicuous –
I pull your hair
while you’re pulling mine
and wait for your whimper.
Andrés López is an undergraduate writer studying English and Women & Gender Studies in Lincoln, NE. Andrés’s work covers queerness, Latinidad, familial grief, and survival in Midwest America. He is nominated for Best of the Net 2027 and has been published in Tough Poets Review, &Change, dreamboybookclub, Queer Poem-a-day, and more. His forthcoming work will be seen in GUTMAG among others.
Banner Art:
Georgia O’Keeffe, Red and Pink Rocks and Teeth, 1938, The Art Institute of Chicago
