Home | Current Issue | Submissions | Masthead | About Us | Archive
Untitled
Karla Polanco
Vanilla.
Vanilla.
The tasteless taste of an icecream
Like the walls inside this church.
Pencils drop. Eyes pop.
Unlike tainted wine.
1993. Childhood. Pearls.
A gush of Puerto Rican
Summer breeze. White sand.
And please don't tell me that
snow is white: Vanilla
Boring vanilla. The
color of peace. The
Smell of surrender.
Long bloody battle.
Coconut. Oil and
Water, Night and
Day. Sunshine and
Rain they hardly
mix. Vanilla so neutral.
Switzerland. That point between you and me.
