The Acentos Review
 
Bio Belen Lopez was born in Oakland, CA and called it home until a family move during her senior year of high school transplanted her to the Central Valley. A graduate of CSU Fresno, where she majored in English Literature, she has had work published online in Phoebe and in print in Solo Novo. She lives in Madera, CA.
3 Poems by Belen Lopez   Because She Wanted to be a Macho I. For her sixth birthday she asked for a holster, a pair of silver pistolas, a golden Sherriff’s star and a new tejana not yet formed to the shape of her head, along with new Barbies—to show them how to fight. She did not pray for a kiss or a smile from the boy who sat next to her in class. She did not dream of the wedding march, the great white dress or the color of his eyes. She did not glance out the window waiting for him to rescue her. She prayed instead to grow up to be a cowboy, a ranchero, a brave soldado fighting the French with Benito Juarez. With her Apá she watched John Wayne strut to charm a lady, Clint Eastwood snarl through a cigar and Pedro Infante sing before fighting his way out of harm. From them she learned that machos were never broken. Steady and solid, unmovable and hard, they bent only when there was no other way or, when no one was looking, under the touch and gaze of a pretty, dark eyed mujer. All broken bones, hearts, and pride could be bandaged or forgotten with a bottle of tequila, a gunshot aimed into the night and a mariachi song unevenly sung in the streets where no one listened or walked. II. She imagined her own legend could be formed this way: el jaripeo, she in the middle of the circle, hands and thighs tight on the bull, eyes closed, listening for the rush of the rope gliding through the smoking dust to capture the bull before she fell or was dropped. In these dreams no one yelled “¡Basta! No mas.” Instead they cheered and heavy hands slapped her back in congratulations. Her reward for staying on, for holding onto the bull and not running after the rope’s snag, was the sting of warm cerveza on her tongue, the burn of alcohol in her throat. She pictured a long stretch of red earth broken by the occasional song or tiroteo. She did not see the foam at the horse’s mouth as it grew tired under her weight, the spurs of her boots cutting craters into its side, nor the gun rusting over unable to fire in the middle of the fight. And never was there so much as a pinprick of blood. Inheritance of Hands I am washing dishes, the yellow rubber gloves forgotten once again, when I notice I have Apá’s hands: the wide square palms, the sharp knuckles and thick boned fingers that do not taper to a fine point but remain solid and round to their edges. I once complained of their bluntness, their lack of grace, the absence of delicate shape. I hated how strange and clumsy my fingernails seemed, plain and dull even with two coats of bright red nail polish. Abuela’s hands were always unadorned, darkened by the sun and covered in lines that given words might tell how she once lifted and carried six children, turned tortillas over a hot comal or braided dark unruly hair into contained plaits. Apá’s hands are maps—lines and scars that show where he has come close to metal scrapes, burns, from when he worked on stubborn engines that gave little, that left him stained black and bruised from their resistance. My own have begun to collect marks and signposts of each mistake and careless act: one between the space below my thumb and above my wrist where in a moment of distraction skin made contact with a heated oven rack, another at the tip of my index finger when one look away let knife slice flesh and small red lines where constant exposure to moisture has dried and cracked the skin open so that each flex of finger, each turn of wrist, aches. Now that the water creates wrinkles in my fingertips, white ridges that rise and fold, and agitates the skin of my knuckles until they are raw and red, I can see how easily my hands might betray me as I age and curl into half claws like Abuela Carmen’s. Moreno hands— Apá once said when the gold bangle I was trying to slip on snagged above the joint of my thumb before it fell loose, circling my wrist—your inheritance. Amá tells me to take care of them when she catches me being careless in this way. She taught me to wash away the soap, shake the water off, dry my hands with a faded kitchen towel and rub sweet scented aloe lotion into the skin to ease away the red. She points to her own hands dusted with tan freckles, the streams of blue veins raised like ridges on a topographic map, and shows me what I should avoid. El Nopal In the yard of the house we once lived in, the new owners have cut down la penca de nopal. When we were there it had grown as tall as the fence, the root of it large and solid, gray that sprouted upward into bright, new green. We complained but always ate it when Amá served it grilled and sprinkled with salt, stirred into frijoles and huevos, boiled in water until soft and slimy, or sliced and tossed into a salad of diced tomatoes, cilantro and onions. Only when raw, freshly cleared of thorns could we refuse it, though my little brother preferred it this way and waited for the next piece to be wiped clean. This new family must have found it gave them only bitter rewards: a toddler unaware of hurt, a supply that surpassed any demands, hands bruised and pierced by eyeless thorns. Sometimes, driving past the house, I can see the ground where the heavy base once stood is bare and packed, the sprout of what will take its place not yet rising up, above.