BIO
Alexandra Peñaloza Alessandri is a Colombian-American poet, children’s author, and professor at Broward College, where she teaches composition, creative writing, and U.S. Hispanic/Latino Literature. She received her BA and MA degrees in English Literature from FIU and a Certificate of Fiction from UCLA Extension. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Acentos Review, Rio Grande Review, YARN, and Atlanta Review. She lives in South Florida with her husband and son, dreaming of Colombia. For more about Alexandra, visit http://apalessandri.wordpress.com.
The Room With the Espantos
The room with the espantos
stands at the end of the hall,
fourth door to the left. By all
accounts it’s the perfect room:
wide open windows covered
in mantillas; a four-poster
bed of hand-carved mahogany
passed down through three
generations; a bust of Christ
Jesus, crown of thorns impaled
on his head, tears and sweat and
blood painted on his face. But this
is where the espantos come. They
lie beside you, their weight creaking
the worn springs of the mattress, their
heavy breathing reminding you
you’re not alone.
Wanderlust
I was nine when wanderlust settled in
my lungs as fresh as the Andes’ air
rip with cacao from the eje cafetero.
The Río Magdalena curved toward
el estrecho, the inverted isthmus
between slippery rocks where the
river crescendos into an angry,
swirling current. It led me toward
towering banyan trees with thick
roots reaching across fincas with
crimson columns and fuchsia
bougainvillea, toward a cathedral
carved inside black salt rock, an altar
etched into the gut of the mountain.
Once I knew the scent of wanderlust,
I followed it to mountain-top medieval
castles carved alongside the Rhine River;
to mustard fields stretched into endless
yellow yawns; to London, where lazy rain
drizzled on black-paved roads; to the snow-
capped Alps; and to Mont Martre, where
artists sat at easels underneath the fire
of a setting sun.
And later, wanderlust tugged me through
British Columbia, with cold wind whipping
ice crusted cars, towering totem poles, fir
green pines, and sharp cliffs; through Quebec’s
red brick walls and narrow cobbled streets,
savoring warm wine and hot maple spread
on packed snow; through Cartagena’s
walled city, with its clock tower and
crumbling mustard yellow paint; through
street artists with fingers for paintbrushes
and old men in straw hats, lounging, waiting—
for wanderlust to wake them.
The Me in the Mirror
The me in the mirror is a liar—
skin lined with cobwebs,
eyes swollen with inflamed capillaries.
I don’t recognize the woman
standing before me, thick-legged and
protruding belly, with coal
half-moons beneath her eyes and
desperation in her breath.
The me in the mirror should be
collar-bone, hip-bone thin
laughing with the weightlessness
of the adolescent girl she left
behind, free from the aches snaking
through her joints, one connective
tissue through the next. But she’s
not. She’s a liar—
taunting me, hiding behind the
shroud that envelops me, a barrier
between who I was and who
I’ve become, hiding the sludge
coursing through my veins
and the stench of fatigue.
Espresso eyes stare back at me.
I’m healthy, they say. But that
that, too, is a lie.
The me in the mirror sways
to the four-step beat of salsa
and I stand frozen,
unable to follow.