Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.

The Alley

Nobody strings a line across the alley,
hangs out their washing
like I’ve seen in old movies.
There’s a laundromat down the street.
If you wish to know
what others are wearing,
that’s the place to go.
Shirts don’t wave like flags.
No woman’s fancy underwear
flaunts it's shamelessness.

The alley is for trash mostly.
Pigeons and sparrows pick away
in the daylight hours.
Rats take the night shift.
No one looks out on it anyhow.
All windows facing are shuttered,
curtains drawn.
No flower boxes on sills.
Nothing would be brave enough
to bloom.

People must make do
with whatever faces the street,
the traffic, the folks strolling by,
the neighbors hanging out
on the stoop opposite.
Once or twice,
I’ve seen the homeless
shuffle toward the alley
to make themselves a bed for the night.
They’ve still homeless when they get there.

Dear Fortune Teller

No I don’t want you to read for me,
to spread tarot cards on a table,
spin my expectations
into death, the devil,
wands and cups,
or peer into your crystal ball,
see, in advance,
my next year or two.

And I’d rather you
not check out the bumps on my head,
the tea-leaves in a cup
I’ve drunk from
or where the constellations resided
the moment I was born.

I prefer an uncharted future.
It’s what I’m used to.

Crash

Her death happened
on a Dominican roadway,
so it’s still in Spanish –
la muerte –
for a hot climate,
it’s incredibly chilly

you say you like this face
but I tell you it holds secrets –
crumpled cars
the sickly air of ether

all it takes is her name
and your kiss is broken –
her name
and I can’t bear the grind of bones –
her name,
please, zip me up,
it’s cold as hell in here –

wait,
why wouldn’t it be?
it is hell –
el infierno
if you’ve been paying attention.