Cristina Correa – Poetry

An exit in numbers.

1 excerpted line: “You have to like it better than being loved.”
2 untuned guitars.
3 words that start with –e/x: xylophone, Xanax, exception.

1 half-iversary date at the Cineplex.
1 possibly accidental proclamation of love, slipped out of a moan.
2 apartments separately, 2 together.

3 grandparents’ funerals.
3 slow dances.
5 weddings.

1 chorus.

1 dead dog, 1 sick dog, all of them salty.
A jokesong. A love poem,
2 in fact, now 3.
4 best friends, none of them stick.

1 overheard fight:
“When you play me songs by other men, I just want to beat their asses.
I just want to hate them because they’re special to you.”

2 mix CDs.

5 social networks. 1 handwritten letter.
55 months.

4 1/2 goodbyes, only one sticks.

1 last attempt over tea.
2 spoons instead of 1.
1 throat clearing itself.
And an empty honeypot.

2 sets of photobooth pictures,
4 squares in each.
The final square
—with her head leaned back,
mouth curled up in ecstatic calm—
an answer
to 20 unasked questions.

1 loose hug.

A thought: The sum of two hands is always one.

Contributor’s Notes:

Cristina Correa attended the Ragdale Foundation as a 2013 Midwestern Voices and Visions awardee. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Rebelde: A Proyeco Latina Anthology, Kalyani Magazine and Ariel XXX. She has been a featured reader at various series including Revolving Door and Palabra Pura. She holds a BA from Columbia College’s Fiction Writing Department and is an MA candidate in Latin American and Latino Studies at the University of Illinois at Chicago. A Chicago native, Correa currently lives in Humboldt Park.