A not small, not ugly, not quiet, not clumsy gal,
Prone to corners, hiccups, sauces and wine.
But, as a guest, addressed only once and not by all.
A woman-child without absolute truths,
Inclined to sit straight, stand slumped and steal stares.
But, in delivery, too eager with wit, too late with flare.
The not-lady, not-graceful, not-charming you,
With a lonely métier she says is best left for two:
To self-involve the self-eschewed
In the hollow of a silver spoon.
This is a reprint of work originally published in Boston Poetry Magazine.
Ana Maria Caballero currently lives in Bogotá, Colombia with her husband and nine-month-old son. During her son’s naps, she created a blog – http:/www.thedrugstorenotebook.co – where she shares her poems and love of literature.