PoEma for MaMi
I picked this pen
up from where you left it
on that wooden desk in a town
you will learn to hate.
you that city girl not that india sucia
from Jutiapa as you would call yourself.
you only knew how to write your simple name
in all orders of
UpPPer case AnD LoweR-case letters
and sometimes baby cursive that
you managed to learn on your own.
you a vieja
with abandoned school
on your fingertips, I would
walk into classrooms with your signed forms
to scrunched eyebrows come hither index fingers
pointing to the juxtaposing signatures
that were the wrong sizes for our bodies.
sign here, young lady so I signed
to prove how well-colonized
I was with my perfect grown woman
Oxford English cursive up against
your toppling letters. a majestic view
of uneven rooftops
of the skyscrapers of a city that
would become your first place of
many deaths.
my name is on your death certificate now.
a coffin typed six feet below your name
my name a sole witness, the purveyor of truths.
I don’t know what I’ll write
from here on other than
to remember to write the entire
alphabet every time I write your name
spelling out all the dichos
that didn’t die with you
setting those concrete buildings on fire creating
a new city of angels.
Self-Portrait in Several Definitions
air· n. I began with a kiss and ended in an orgasm
my parents exchanging air the entire time
what a feat to have been there at
the right place right time because
desde que el mundo es mundo
we all share the same origin
that of pleasure
how simple, que dicha.
bare· adj. like my mother’s feet not the ones
that ran bare after her mother kicking
the dirt causing a scar on the blush
of her right cheek. more like the ones that
grew exhausted greñas sticking out like
the weathered branches of November birches.
heels smothered in restorative oils
tea tree jasmine, fungal toenails except
the pinky one black. uninfected because
perhaps an entire Mayan empire guarded it.
it is called la marca del indio after all,
the mark of the native, solo los indios tienen esto
my mother would say proudly in forced Spanish
her stubby index finger pointing to it
like a long sought-after landmark.
My goodness, for a diabetic, your mother’s feet are well cared for, doctors would say
a coy smile on my face. silent pride.
hot· adj. a July baby I was supposed to love
the heat but alas genes always win.
Mami hated the heat. I hate it too.
AC on in October fan in December.
I shift my solutions for the heat perhaps
one day I’ll make it on the Miss Universe stage
showcase my talent of taking
the shape of a dead mother.
mist· n. the perfect in-between.
not quite air but a bit thicker.
like fog. like spirit even. like
the one the angel oracle card bruja told me about eyes closed:
Your mother. She left a lot of unfinished business on earth.
Lampiña
You used to say la gente lampiña no tiene vergüenza.
I suppose that leaving a trinity of shaving
blades on your altar is also a shameless act.
More shameless than the fact that I
made the top of my cheap IKEA dresser
your memorial.
I choose the sea-foam green colored blade.
I commence the butchering,
the carving of my face into a more palatable one.
Me decías that hair makes skin
look darker y mejor depilar. So, I bleach
with this knife, the color of a newborn’s nursery.
Whiteness always looks innocent, no cierto?
I shave and shave and shave
the baby hairs, the side burns, my mustache,
the large patches of maize swaying
under July sun up and down my jawline.
My cheeks crimson,
another marca del indio.
All the indios in me cry before
the spectacle of this whitened becoming.
Just one more patch. One more.
I’m so dark and light a la vez.
Que ugly y que fea.
Inside my mouth ancestors scream
for me to stop in a language
raped out of them.
Scratches suddenly appear on the left cheek.
The handiwork of their banging and chiseling.
A bit of my blood diluted with Mediterranean
Sefarads and other criminals is drawn.
I count three
pricks on my left cheek.
I stop.
I run my olive and suckling
pig pink fingers over my cheeks.
They sound the fire alarms.
Announce the midnight mass.
The last call for the bus leaving Chiapas
I stare at the red reflection
of my mother and her people.
I am a lampiña now.
An assassin of ancestors.
I remove the weapons
off my mother’s altar.
A choir of silence
fills the air around me.
Ashamed, I say, Que vergüenza.