Sara Borjas


She clutches two bunches of grass

in her hands, waves her arms over her head

like floppy bananas, and pretends to be

a weed. Then, she is a tornado whirling

like a dropped penny between her mother

and the TV. Narcissus gathers the living room

into her: the wooden coasters, the Disney movies

on the shelf, the Barbies whose hair she colored

with a black sharpie to look like hers.

And everything blends: her hands

are pillow feathers, her mouth is a glass

of water, her head is a broken kitty magnet

nobody can see.


Sara Borjas is from Fresno, California. She received her MFA from UC Riverside. Her poems have been previously published in Verdad, Yes, Poetry, Other Poetry, Stone Highway Review and are forthcoming in The Packinghouse Review and The McNeese Review. She currently lives in Southern California.