Talia Flores | Two Poems

Granja Texana

He spits on her dress
& comes inside her.
Tastes lemon & vomit
in his throat like tongue.
She swallows
coat fuzz. Lets it soak.
Licks sad wounds & ruddy blood.
& hair knots. & mazmorras.
& long legs & longer fists
in the fields of her thighs.
In one dream, the baby is vomiting.
In another, she walks into her mouth
soft, broken
at the hip.



Ugolino & His Children

Ugolino is a no-eyed man
who jumps on his children

naked, no mouth. Legs
open for silent hills.

He kisses himself
& calls it art. The spit

sticks. He sings my grief
is important! & no one

screams. He has twenty
teeth made of metaphors,

suns dipped in spine, children
with backs humbled

by the weight of their own
bones. I open their palms

& find no pink milk,
no cavities or smokeless

flowers. Just 2,000 poems
of men who slipped.


Talia Flores is an undergraduate at Stanford University. A Pushcart Prize Nominee, recipient of the Texas Book Festival Fiction Prize, and winner of the 2017 Gabelle Prize for Writing, her work appears or is forthcoming in Hobart, Bennington Review, Gigantic Sequins, and more. She is the Managing Editor for The Blueshift Journal, a fellow at Stanford’s Institute for Diversity in the Arts, and a member of the Stanford Spoken Word Collective. Find her on Twitter @tal_ora.