Marrow
Yet again crabgrass grows between the cracks in the long sidewalk of
someone's life.
The curb bends its back like a person overwhelmed
by the fear of poverty's sad garments.
Because it's not easy this world.
Despite children, despite boats,
despite everything that has learned to walk without crutches.
In the cold, old men wear their coat collars high around their necks.
Still the snow lands on eyelashes like forbidden sins.
The marrow of evening turns the river dark.
Meanwhile, I am a pale boat on the water, roofless, a few refugees
asleep
on the pillows of night.
The scared children's wide-open eyes lighting the world.
Eva Skrande was
born in Havana, Cuba, and later immigrated to Florida with her family.
A graduate of the University of Iowa's Writers Workshop (MFA) and the
University of Houston's Creative Writing Program (Ph.D), she now lives
and teaches creative writing in Houston, Texas. Her poems appear in Alternactive Magazine, 8 Poems,
Collidescope, Inksounds, SurVision, etc. Her books include My Mother's Cuba (River City
Poetry Series, 2010), Bone Argot
(Spuyten Duyvil, 2019), and the forthcoming The Boat that Brought Sadness into the
World (Finishing Line Press).