Sad Girl Sonnet #2
BY DIANNELY ANTIGUA
Last week I had breakfast with a lover
from three years ago. I confessed
nothing, the yolk from the over
easy egg crusting in the grooves
of my thumb ring. I’d like to believe it’s a sign
for something. They change
the pH, you know. Dicks, not eggs.
They can’t leave anything they enter
quietly. So I’m on Tinder in Italy. I’m on
Klonopin in Italy, Wellbutrin, gabapentin,
Plan B. Here it’s called ellaOne.
The Italians can make any morning
after sound romantic, church bells
in the distance, sperm running down my thigh.
Sad Girl Sonnet #19
BY DIANNELY ANTIGUA
It’s another Tuesday, and I marvel at what I can—the interwoven
curves of a pretzel-shaped cookie covered in sugar crystals,
just one variety in the blue tin. My grandmother
was a beautiful woman—I think this while I sip my coffee
alone in a foreign country, remembering how she used
the empty tins for sewing kits. Why does everything feel
like dying? I chew this cookie now, but I will die. The last time,
I stopped myself because I was afraid of a hell. I’ve been told
there is the most beautiful fresco of hell in Pisa. I need to know
my options. One of the cookies in the tin
looks like a rippled teardrop, hole in the center, and for an hour
I’m mad at the person who designed the hole there. I dip
the cookie, and the coffee flows right in. To be
passed through with ease. How could hell be worse.
