art by the feral artist
¬† ¬† Luivette Resto was born in Aguas Buenas, Puerto Rico but proudly raised in the Bronx. She received her BA in English Literature with a concentration in U.S. Latino Studies from Cornell University in 1999. In 2003, she completed her MFA in Creative Writing, specifically poetry, at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Her work can be read in several publications such as Harpur Palate, Albion Review, Falling Star Magazine, The Furnace Review, Latino Today, and Kennesaw Review. Currently, she lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, Jose and their three children, Antonio, Sofia, and Joaquin. Resto is a professor at Citrus College where she teaches English Literature and composition writing.
She didnít kiss me like you.
Thatís what you said
as we sat on my bedroom fire escape,
staring at the luminescent red and green lights
of the Empire State Building.
Christmas was almost here.
Our third one if I counted correctly.
We never faced one another.
as you spoke to a starless night sky
and I listened to taxis curse at brave pedestrians.
You didnít love me the same way anymore.
You needed to find yourself
before you could give to others.
I wasnít what you needed right now.
You didnít see a future or a family with me.
I didnít cry.
Not for your satisfaction
but for mine.
I didnít want to remember myself that way.
Thoughtfully the city exhaled
a windfull of flurries up my thin nightshirt.
Shuttering for the first time,
I got up and dusted off the rust from my jeans.