BIO
Monica L. Garcia, a Chicana born and raised in Kankakee Illinois, was always given a fondness for words by her mother. Currently living in Evanston Illinois, she is a senior studying English - Creative Writing, Spanish and Latina/o Studies at Northwestern University. Her poems have been published in Helicon Literary & Arts Magazine and Polemix Magazine, Northwestern's first Latinx-centered magazine. Most of her poetry deals with transgenerational trauma, re-imagining the voices of mujeres in history, and the body as a site of struggle, but also a site of healing.
What Do You Do When The Grave Speaks Back
In the summer of 1942, José Díaz, among many other Mexican Americans, was invited to a neighborhood birthday party. By the end of the night, Díaz was found dead, his body discarded near the reservoir of the Sleepy Lagoon. His autopsy showed that he had been inebriated, and there was a fracture at the base of his skull. The actual cause of his death remains unknown.
His smile,
pearlescent against lantern light, and su
caló
Rolling off his
tongue were floating with drink. Espérate,
Someone laughs, beer
bubbling. Popping. His Pachuco
Brothers sink into
each other's shoulders like rompope.
He almost forgets how
his father throttled the word pocho
From his throat,
cursed. Hair slicked and riding against su
cabeza,
It becomes his skin;
no ripped stitches. His pants weren't demasiado,
Their circumference
never holding enough, and when the güera
With the other white
bastards laugh, it's at themselves. El
porqué
Of these moments
fizzle. Needing only the glint of un
huracán
In his eye, it tells
him about the day after, of the qué sigue.
Henry, finger bones
digging into his shoulder, says ‘Juan,
Wait, José – slide into the lagoon for a
minute cabrón!’
He brushes him off
and laughs. 'Not tonight, hosicón.
In the dream, they were supposed to be in love
she sits across from him, heart monitor
scatting
in between their
silence. staring at the white void
in front, behind,
left & right of her, she almost forgets
her taffeta dress,
the peach-colored frosting
sewn into the fabric. how it sleeps on
the purple & green
pinpricks of busted
bloodflow on her thighs. he does not
say anything, the
bags under his eyes
designer. a salvatore
ferragamo clip
golden, glinting under the
fluorescents.
a knife, pointed
& prickling
becomes the sluice in
the middle. tension
tangible, the
"what are you supposed to do
with this?" moment that crouches
in the spring air
after miscarriage.
her hand reaches for
the bed sheet,
crinkling birdsong.
he does not open his
mouth, & her
lips part in his stead. her throat does
not move,
but the sound, the
friction of vocal chords,
carries static:
"at least now we're celebrating
our euthaversary. I
don't know if our
marriage was still a party four years
ago,
or if – " the
rest of the sentence hangs
on the edge of the
monitor,
the dripping of
beep.
beep.
beep.
beep.
beep.
How Far the Roots Stretch
I am eleven years old, on the cusp of
communion
when I open the yawning metal door
and walk into the courtyard behind my
Abuelita’s home,
re-memorizing the hanging ropes playing
clothing lines,
the cracked stone ground, and the
malformed brick room to the right of me
with the single light bulb dangling
from the ceiling. I can almost see Abuelito,
crouching on the worn down tree stump,
chiseling leather
into magic, weaving straps into sandals
for sale.
In the middle of this handmade cloister
is the lime tree, outlined by dilapidated rocks –
lacking in leaves, but rich in so much
sour fruit that they fall like rain
and ripple onto the stones. I notice
from the branches hang
a pig, pink and long as I am tall. He
writhes, the harsh rope searing
into his hind legs with each jerking
motion. My eyes meet his.
I am afraid of what he wouldn’t do to
get out of that snare.
From behind me, my mother’s hand
wrenches me back,
past tree stumps, light bulbs, and
clotheslines.
Slams the rusting door.
You
shouldn’t be in there, she says.
I hear the pig crying from the lime
tree.
Later on, in my Abuelita’s garage, my
mother offers me
a styrofoam plate with tacos made out of the pig she says.
I
can’t eat that, I sob, pushing the plate back to her. I remember the fear
–
of eating something hanging
from death is not holy, not what
Abuelita prays for on her rosary beads.
My mother offers it again. It’s already dead, it’s good.
Through tears and the gazes from
uncles, cousins, and friends of family
I take a bite.
It’s
good,
I tell her. The sob caught inside my throat mixes with the pig.
When I go back into the courtyard, red
stains hover
over soil and stones. I wonder whether
the lime tree
saw, and if it will remember.