Electra

This ambiguous being 
where the humming of truth blends
with the sweetness of myth, 
and the expected poem 
with memories whose heroic images are overblown
and where there is . . . 
a lonely photograph that
I stand in front of as if it's a mirror
whenever the hidden questions multiply
and sneak towards me 
from the holes in the family tales 
amputated by necessity. 
 

Refrigerator

I opened it,
its contents were tidy.
Bottles of preserved milk
cartons of yogurt
bags of frozen meat
yellow apples
medicine and bread
and . . . and . . . etc.
In the refrigerator of my soul
the contents scatter
and expire
and no one opens them.