essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
There
cars are white,
the sun is not for bathing under.
She would never allow a condiment
without a saucer or a spoon,
tea without a pot,
a pop sock and skirt.
She travels the world, storms the Venice Biennale, exhibits at the Guggenheim, Tate, Pompidou – you name it, parties with the grimy glitterati in LA, Madrid, São Paulo, breaks a Sotheby’s sale record and dazzles the fawning curators and collectors at every chandeliered benefit dinner.
I covered my eyes and my
tears tasted of metal.
gluey congee cooked with
yellow ginger
salted pork
thousand-year-old eggs
constantly stirred to make sure
it doesn’t stick to the bottom
Mom’s in charge and tells us to watch how it’s done,
tucking and folding
until she holds above our heads, like a baptized child,
our exemplar tamale
“Just like that!” ¡Perfecto!
No one saw the tattoo coming. In high school, I was not voted Most Likely To Get Inked. I was not voted Seventeenth Most Likely To Get Inked. No, I was the girl for whom they had to invent a new yearbook category: Most Likely To Attend Seminary. At sleepovers, I squiggled under the covers…
his Superkings fan over
a firm hand grip in sunburst
gilding the bonfire
cherry red
As if by sticking up taut yellow tape
They could control the space
Like some kind of boxing match
Where a ring-side bell
Could take a firm grip of time
The tingle of feet in an ice
cold bed is finally enough to get me out
at dusk, all shabby chic
I convince Landa to be my accomplice as she culls rotten lettuce heads. They let Landa wear a knife on her belt. She has a weak heart and I think destroying crops makes her feel powerful.
White fabric sagging
Exposed lipsticked mouth
Small exposed mouth screaming
Exposed mouth with nose ring
Porridge 