~ ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of April 2026 ~
Tag: Dolo Diaz
Four Poems by Dolo Diaz
Father at the Stove
Father was a picky eater.
Mother would fuss over the stove,
a different pot for each of us.
It was her undoing.
She would make cod for me.
Brother, sister, other dishes.
But Father was exotic:
razor clams, conger fish
goose barnacles—
all fine, till the egg.
The fried egg.
It was her Everest.
Her culinary summit
unconquered.
Arguments would flare,
the yolk was cold.
Father would demonstrate
with another egg.
Mother, humiliated,
Father at the stove
pouring hot oil
over the yolk.
The family meal
disrupted.
Irretrievably.
*
The Morning After the Storm
I walk into the fresh battlefield
to inspect the fallen limbs.
Which tree do they belong to?
The shapes they take—
landing and settling,
a second planting.
The missing sound
of the open wound.
The creek rages,
chocolate-thick,
oxidized venous blood
carrying limbs lost upstream.
There is a hush in destruction,
pregnant with sound.
It fades slowly,
like folding eggs into batter.
If you listen carefully,
you can hear the hum.
After the storm,
what needed to break
has broken,
and stilled.
*
Forcing Last Rites on My Father
Calling the priest never crossed our minds.
Religion was not your cup of tea.
But your sister insisted, called him anyway
behind our backs. And when he arrived—
black robes cloaking a flawed man—
he insisted too and barged into your room.
You sat there, puzzled by the vials of oil
and paraphernalia. We were kids, peering through
the cracked door, tears of helplessness.
When he was done, we cursed him down the stairs.
He claimed God was on his side.
We knew better.
*
The Chestnut Grove
You took us to the mountains
to show us the forestland
we would inherit—
the three of us.
I don’t remember what
my two siblings were promised,
but mine was the old chestnut grove.
Ancient, contorted trees
offering green, spiky parcels
cradling leathery fruit.
Trees native to the land,
unlike the eucalyptus
crowding all around us.
I think about that grove—
seen only once
four decades ago,
three of those you’ve been gone.
Your will, still unsettled,
the land still waiting,
the trees still bearing chestnuts
every fall.
*
Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared/forthcoming in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Third Wednesday, The Lake, among others. Website: dolodiaz.com.
Two Poems by Dolo Diaz
Starbucks Impostor
For years I’d been Susan.
My real name unpronounceable
to them, a dry “r” they wet and sloth.
Saliva spilling into my coffee.
Then the wait was so long at this one store
that I used the app to pre-order.
There was a cup waiting for me,
small non-fat cappuccino,
with my real name printed.
I reached but recoiled.
I looked around at the other customers,
wondering who else was under cover,
who laid bare. I grabbed the cup and
tossed it, discreetly.
Then shuffled to the long line,
gaze on the ground,
to order a small nonfat cappuccino
for Susan.
*
Communion
He would place it on my tongue
with reverence; he was a holy man,
no doubt. No eye contact—he
knew all my sins—
bound on earth.
I would do a one-eighty,
return to my seat, kneel
in the hard chestnut.
Downcast gaze, the tip of my tongue
slowly peeling the wet wafer
from the roof of my mouth.
This is God, stuck to
the roof of my mouth—
nothing else was coming loose.
*
Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared/forthcoming in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Third Wednesday, The Lake, among others. dolodiaz.com
ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of July 2025
~ ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of July 2025 ~
Three Poems by Dolo Diaz
Shaving
Father, shaving
starts crying
up above my head.
Mother asks
What is wrong?
I am only three.
He had come
to our house
to shave.
His mother had hidden
his shaving kit—
a little game?
He had found her
that morning,
still staring at the snow
on the TV.
It’s one of the few
memories I have
of my grandmother.
*
ALS
What is it like
to be distilled
to the essence
of who you are?
To pierce
with your eyes
and nothing else?
Your skin poised,
thirsty to feel the touch.
Nerve endings open
and wired.
But nobody
breaks through
the chrysalis.
And you,
longing to reach for
the feathery leaf,
willing it with your eyes
to slowly descend
from the tree
and rest
on your hand.
*
Bar Stool
I was frightened,
so I assembled a bar stool.
First night in the new house—
alone. The peace of the day
melted into the eerie quiet of night.
No blinds or curtains yet.
The house reveals
its pale yellow underbelly
to the outside.
I sit on the floor, unpack the metal parts,
find the tiny tools, the screws.
Lay them all out.
I focus on the instructions,
trying to ignore that anyone passing by
would see me bent over,
fussing over something.
My fingers are clumsy—
the screws slip from them,
the holes do not align.
The stool leg is backwards
and I have to start over.
Finally finished, I sit on it.
The first piece of furniture
in the house. I eye the other
one, and go back down.
The second one goes faster.
I look at the two stools—
white metal legs, grey cushion.
Fear screwed in, screwed in tight.
Tomorrow I will get two more stools
and assemble them at daylight.
That way, I will not know
which ones hold the fear.
*
Dolo Diaz is a poet originally from Spain, living in Palo Alto, California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Star*Line, Rogue Agent, Book of Matches, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, and others. Her first chapbook Defiant Devotion has been published by Bottlecap Press.