Hand me downsby Romina Ramos You might understand,if you’d ever had to play mousein the middle, while your school palsspun you round and threw unwantedNikes and Adidas trackies at you. You would know why I amso defensive over my favourite hoodie,why I keep my trainers in their boxes,match my bandanas and socks. Fashion was just… Continue reading Hand Me Downs
Category: poetry
My Father Was An Athlete
Writer’s Note: this poem was originally published in the August 2021 ‘Family’ issue of PopShot magazine. My Father Was An Athlete He ran out of the maternity ward so fast,that he got to the finish line beforeI even opened my eyes for the first time. And every man that came after himTreat us like it… Continue reading My Father Was An Athlete
Dear Ma
Dear Ma You once wrote of me that I am like a chair not a comfortable one but strong and supportive. Today I write to you to say that you are the table at which we dine at every night. Your thick oak limbs have held more difficult decisions than traditional cuisine and your back… Continue reading Dear Ma
Star of Hope (1883)
Star of Hope (1883) One hour and forty-five minutes is howlong it took to walk to the mouth of thebeast that swallowed you, and back. Along the way is where I found you. Inthe distance you looked like a group of peoplecrouching, a consortium of people. I thought maybe fishermen, or women,which reminded me of… Continue reading Star of Hope (1883)
The Flea Market
The Flea Market by: Romina Ramos Originally published in The Bolton Review Issue 9: Rats & Revelry This town is haunted by stained glass godsand crawling with slithering saints, but on the third Sunday of every monththe flea market comes. On this day it is permitted to skip Morning Mass,on this Sunday there is a… Continue reading The Flea Market
The Week My Grandmother Died
The Week My Grandmother Died I screamed at my mum to get the car, and carried my grandmother down the stairs. I prayed for the first time in a over a decade, to a god that I don’t believe in. I muffled violent sobs with a beach towel in the back yard. I did not… Continue reading The Week My Grandmother Died
Speaking In Tongues
Speaking In Tongues When I say I’m cleaning what I mean isI’m going to cleanse, wash the whiskey sweatingout of my pores, the smell of bad decisionsand cigarette smoke ingrained into my hair. When I say I have a meeting, I mean I have toget out of bed this week, open the curtainsto the blinding… Continue reading Speaking In Tongues
Soundless Fights In The Middle Of The Night
You say: say what you have to say! But those words echo in my mind because you are not ready for the deafening tone of the words that are spilling out of my eyes and you do not understand what I mean by your eyes make me want to skinny dip in the ocean and… Continue reading Soundless Fights In The Middle Of The Night
Dentro da Minha Caixa de Recordações
Side note: Today is International Grandparents Day. A while ago, before my granddad died, actually, I started writing this poem for him. Today I translated it into Portuguese and although this is a first draft, I’m proud of it and wanted to add it to my portfolio. I understand a lot of people won’t be… Continue reading Dentro da Minha Caixa de Recordações
A Shot of Tequila
A shot of tequila You are the shot of tequila thatI know I will regret tomorrow but still, recklessly I throw salt onto my wounded soul pour you down my throat, into my bloodstream, and take your lips in mine, as if my life depends on it. As if they are a slice of lemon.
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