Dennis Trujillo
First Week of March
The Valentine’s Day chocolates
I gave my love has one left
nestled in its oval chamber
like a dark moon. I wonder
of the proper way to dispose
of the red heart-shaped box
given that cold February day
when the world was white
as a confectioner’s apron.
Now the March wind whispers
to me that a heart is a heart--
whether made from living cells,
cardboard, or chalk. I take it out
with the trash leaving the last
chocolate uneaten so that
it may go on beating.
Uprooted
Driving a few miles out of town
I come behind a flatbed trailer
with a giant cedar tied down--
the root ball wrapped in swirls
of wet burlap and needled
branches swaying with oncoming
traffic. The softwood spine,
used to standing, seems startled
by the disorienting view of heaven.
As I pass, I glance in the rearview
mirror and it’s suddenly 1972--
I’m eighteen and seat-belted
on a plane leaving Colorado
bound for college in New York.
I clutch a plastic cup of Ginger Ale
and stare out the window, startled
by the disorienting view of heaven.
Dennis Trujillo is a former US Army soldier and middle/high school math teacher from Pueblo, Colorado. In 2010 he spontaneously began writing poetry not knowing where the spark came from. Since then his poems have appeared in more than seventy magazines, journals, and anthologies including Atlanta Review, KYSO Flash, and Sacred Cow. In 2016 he received nominations for both a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net award.
First Week of March
The Valentine’s Day chocolates
I gave my love has one left
nestled in its oval chamber
like a dark moon. I wonder
of the proper way to dispose
of the red heart-shaped box
given that cold February day
when the world was white
as a confectioner’s apron.
Now the March wind whispers
to me that a heart is a heart--
whether made from living cells,
cardboard, or chalk. I take it out
with the trash leaving the last
chocolate uneaten so that
it may go on beating.
Uprooted
Driving a few miles out of town
I come behind a flatbed trailer
with a giant cedar tied down--
the root ball wrapped in swirls
of wet burlap and needled
branches swaying with oncoming
traffic. The softwood spine,
used to standing, seems startled
by the disorienting view of heaven.
As I pass, I glance in the rearview
mirror and it’s suddenly 1972--
I’m eighteen and seat-belted
on a plane leaving Colorado
bound for college in New York.
I clutch a plastic cup of Ginger Ale
and stare out the window, startled
by the disorienting view of heaven.
Dennis Trujillo is a former US Army soldier and middle/high school math teacher from Pueblo, Colorado. In 2010 he spontaneously began writing poetry not knowing where the spark came from. Since then his poems have appeared in more than seventy magazines, journals, and anthologies including Atlanta Review, KYSO Flash, and Sacred Cow. In 2016 he received nominations for both a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net award.