Monday, December 21, 2009


I’m seven.   
Barefoot, my mother runs after Raul’s Ford.
Don’t leave me, babe!  
Don’t leave me!

At 33, she calls.  
Frantic.  Dying sounds
conveyed via cellphone.
She ran over my cat.
In the street, the cat is convulsing.
If I’m crying, perhaps he won’t
yell at me, she thinks.
I’m sure of it.
It’s worked with other men.
At 33, I leave my dinner
and lock myself in a room.

I’m twenty-one.  
Puke stains the tops of my feet.
I didn’t quite make it to the sink.
Don’t die on me, mijo.
Why are you gonna die on me!?
Haphazardly, I wipe the yellow
mush, enough of it, not to track
it to the bath.
At 3 a.m., I’ve parked crookedly.  
In the street, I am barefoot.
Enough tequila in me to set
her voice ablaze.

I’m five.
My father fights with my mother and 
leaves with my uncle.
Move, move! she insists.
I’m pushed aside.   Having
just waved goodbye to them, my hand
goes through the rip in the grey screen.
Why don’t you just fuck him, too!
She yells, and the neighbors duck their
heads out trailer doors and 
manufactured screenless windows.
His truck speeds off, and she’s left
huffing the dust.
Such heaps of asphalt to rub away.

1 comment:

sanmino said...

tight poema ey!!! "his truck speeds off, and she's left/ huffing the dust." great line.