Poetry by Andrea Aldrete

      Justin Meissen CC




On the days I'm not insane 

I practice twelve-stepping to the music 
storm clouds make. I let the rain 
do the talking. I listen to it beat 
beneath my chest. I taste the lightning, 
and feel the thunder roll. I stop trying 
to drink this life away. I try to believe. 
I do believe. I see the heavens spill 
into the softening Earth, the moon 
rising like saltwater stings. I count 
the stars like I hold prayers 
between my teeth. Each one 
brighter, holier 
than the last. 

​



Shades of Blue 

San Diego. 
When the ocean kissed the sky, 
burning at midnight. Not a single 
star fell into the hands of death. 

A stranger in the mirror. 
Her face swollen, tender, 
pulsing in the shape 
of a fist, the morning after 
he had too much to drink. 

The velvet that hugged my hips 
somehow looked better 
on the floor. But everything's 
better when love doesn't hurt. 

Cornflowers in the desert. 
Stems clutched between 
teeth, holding secrets
like gunmetal. 

My father's lips
crowned
by a streak of blood.
 
The feelings that killed him. 



​
Andrea Aldrete is a published author from a small Texas border town where she savors every bit of her rich Hispanic culture. Her work has appeared in Humana Obscura, Prosetrics: The Literary Magazine, Resurrection Magazine her debut poetry collection, The Muse is Sleeping, and others. She is a mother of two small children, and a wife to an amazing husband. She is a recovering alcoholic who lives a sober life creating beautiful and meaningful memories with her loved ones. 

Instagram: @dre.writesnow

​