Mariana was nineteen and built like
a short Bogotá cigar
her skin was buttery and she
used a lot of lip gloss
in those days every woman worth their salt
had a Princess Di cut
Mariana, 5’ft nothing, full of contradiction
Columbian girl with English Princess bangs
she spoke using long consonants
her teeth were crooked but very white
her breath smelt of chocolate and hairspray
she said; sé una buena niña y te daré un dulce
so nicely I couldn’t be naughty and disobey
we read books together, learning the same words
when my father got home she delighted him
with a South American sauce
I wanted her to be mine
to keep her with my marzipan frog
on my mantle
where she’d fit right in and squat
watching over me when the night grew dark
I didn’t want her to leave
the day it rained and she boarded Air Iberia
in a yellow slicker and tight Gloria Vanderbilt jeans
I’ll write you mi Amor she called
a yellow handkerchief tied around her neck
reminding me of 1970’s air-stewardesses
crying more for the loss of me than
my father, already checking out arrivals lounge
for a time I received
Little Twin Stars and Hello Kitty
perfumed notes with bubble handwriting
until I forgot too, her words of endearment
she was like my marzipan frog
who disappeared one day
years later I found out
he’d rotten being kept too long and been thrown out
just like children cannot understand
the whims and fickleness of
adult love