Ode to my Mojo

Where'd you go?
I didn't realize you were gone

until I noticed I had lost the spring

in my step.

I was knocking myself against walls.
I was tripping over the dog.
I was petting myself.
I was alone in a room

with no music and only a Picasso

painting staring back at me.

What a trip.

I was an L.A. woman stuck in the Midwest.
I was a Cuban woman without angry oranges.

I was a poet watching my words escape me.
I was a painter without cerulean.
I was a photographer without Kodachrome.

Mojo you left me when I walked out the door
on my second husband as my cocker spaniel barked
in the back yard, my two older children at their father's house 

carrying only my baby and a diaper bag.

Hey police!
You have reached the Miami police department.

I left my husband. He was violent.

I walked ten blocks to the nearest grocery store.
I am waiting here and not sure what to do.

Hey Mojo!

Where'd you go?

I want you in my pollo.
I want you in my tostones.
I want you in my frijoles.
I want to pour my mojo into a bottle

and take you wherever I go.