Nina C. Peláez

La Llorona
the crying woman

‍

I was the scorned wife—              

all spring, sounds of sirens          

my only company.                            

The morning, unfaithful.            

Trail behind the house,                  

smothered in seepage,                    

the respite I needed,                                                            

so I trudged it every day.                

Snowdrops sopped,                          

the creek swelled                    

around my sadness.                          

I was inconsolable,

childless, a woman

they’d want to ward away:

unwashed hair, stained

shirt, same as yesterday.

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