Closed Hearts She said I’m not what they say I am I can’t help but cry Just a little The knot in my throat And weight on my chest Leave it unsaid, he said She never mentioned how his silence hurt her Leave it unsaid, she said He didn’t tell her how many things were seething to come out Death by so many small nicks along the way You never know what goes on behind closed hearts Eating My Shovel Rolling in the cold San Diego waves the up brings life value and the down, maybe not I eat when I’m depressed, when I’m happy, whenever I self-medicate with coffee and food So many people say that life is too short I disagree Life is so, so long My hopes for happily ever after faded to midnight Every choice narrowed the prospects Fewer possibilities now I’ve dug too deep and the only tool I’ve kept is my shovel. My Dead Body At the funeral of my husband’s best friend’s father, for the first time, we broached the topic of what we want to happen to our dead bodies. I have always wanted my body to be useful to others once I have lost any need for it. I told my husband that I want all of my remaining healthy organs donated, and the rest of me donated to science. I would be happy for my body to be a cadaver or thrown out into those body farms in the middle or south United States to help forensic scientists hone their craft. My husband was appalled at this. He could see himself donating organs, but he wanted the rest of him buried, so his family would have a place to visit him. I pointed out how environmentally unsound burial is and what a waste of human tissue, when he could help science, even after death. After a bit of back and forth, we settled on organ donation, then becoming trees to be planted where our loved ones could visit, but we’d be friendly to the earth in death. He wants a headstone I just want to help someone We’ll see who dies first San Diego Beaches Heading north, waves chase my left side As the water pulls back, little puckers appear in the smooth wet sand The sand crabs are reaching toward the sun If I’m lucky, I’ll find a sand dollar Or one of those butterfly shells The former home of a muscle Clam Or oyster Splayed open Revealing its shiny vulnerable inside I remember when La Jolla’s seal beach Was once the children’s cove Instead of the home of so many ocean puppies It was the perfect wading spot for little ones Protected by the sea wall Bordered by tide pools We used to gently press our fingers Into the center of the sea anemone Until they recoiled into themselves Now the seals take up all the space And bark either in delight or warning To all who dare to venture near We Can All be a Stranger She knows exactly how to break my heart My perfect little girl with all those imperfections Her cherubic face makes me want to give her everything She wants and more my obligation as her mother is to not give her everything When she lies She’s a stranger When she’s obstinate She’s a stranger When I raise my voice I’m a stranger When I punish her I’m a stranger I can’t just be her best friend I cant just give her what she wants now I have to help guide her to the best self she can become My little girl is a woman in the making and the making is the hard part
CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her) is a pushcart nominated writer and communication professor accomplished in film, academia, and creative writing who performs, writes, signs, and rarely relaxes. She’s a flash fiction and poetry editor for Dark Onus Lit. CLS is raising her daughter and dog with her husband in Alhambra, CA.