When I was younger  I listened
to Avril Lavigne on repeat   especially
during long summer months in Colombia
I thought I was  somehow edgy  
and I thought my love affair  was something
out of a book   something of a story
to be heard  in her music
But    it wasn’t
It was   sweaty   awkward   and false
something  full of little questions  
none of which had important answers
It was feeling   bad  for feeling good
And feeling good   cause it felt bad
It was too much    too soon

My uncle took pictures of me   and so easily
I’d forget I wasn’t  keeping my belly in, and he’d
hover the camera around and as I’d turn away
as to not ruin the scenery  he would  remind
me gently how  I was the subject of his art

my father looked like a toddler as he
stuffed his face with all that Chinese food,  black bean
and red sauces
sliding down his chin   my mother ate with
puckered lips as if the food wasn’t   good
but it was,  wasn’t it?

And I contemplated   about the fate
of my children   and whether the
thoughts  of dying   were sinful
and also about the   whereabouts
of my dead grandmothers  and  ancestors
and let’s not forget
the pets

I came home with a full stomach
but ate some more   in the kitchen
lights off  
my mother was on her tablet
I kept wondering if she’d look up
and ask:
what do you have in your pockets?

Well, would you like to know?
Some guava stuffed pastries, made by
a little Cuban joint in Miami International Airport
And about four slices of white bread.

And I stuffed it all in my pockets.

My mother   she said my name
and I wanted her to keep   on  saying it
just because I wanted him to hear
And  I know  I shouldn’t look  too long
into his eyes when he asks
“how’s her back?”
“from a scale of 1 to 10, how much is she hurting?”
So I stare awkwardly   around the office
At the old women on ellipticals
At former athletes trying to regain their strength
At the people---like my mother---with broken pieces
trying to get back their normalcy

I know I shouldn’t want him
to touch me the way he touches my mother
when he smoothes her knots, down her back
down into her waist and legs
He nods politely as I tell him about my mother’s
last visit to the podiatrist, how she had twisted
her ankle and he had kindly placed
a boot to stabilize it
He nods respectfully as I translate my
mother’s comments:
“el dolor no esta muy mal hoy”

“Today the pain is not so bad”

Slowly   it  embraces me
Slowly   it  becomes   the object
that   holds  my weakness   and
chews   it  

Soon     it
will regurgitate   greatness

When you saw me across the river,
You fondled the leaves of your belt
You tasted the blood from your chapped lip,
Curious to see if my dress was soft enough to rip
Or if your eyes could make me melt.

When you saw me across the river,
You begged for things I could not give.
So you took my body instead,
Asked for it to split-open and spread
As you commanded it to die and then live.

When you came to me across the river,
You tapped my forehead three times,
Sputtered your spells into my ears.
No sweeter sounds would I ever hear,
As you covered me in lavender and thyme.

When you came to me across the river,
My hunger for the wood was already there,
I thirsted for the waters that ran beneath us.
All I had thought I wanted was superfluous,
As above me you pounded and zestfully stared.

When you were finished with me in the river,
I was tempted to ask for your name,
Only to learn that here roamed many a wood-devil,
Those who keep the wild lands fruitful and leveled,
And turn people like you and I untame.

the false story is that I was only loved by my dog
that he was the only thing that understood me  truly
it is a story   with no plot   just about a chubby girl who
walks around with her sick coughing dog    but the truth is this-
for 10 years he didn’t cough

in fact    he jumped like a gazelle into bushes at the small park
and  ate challah bread every morning     we served him
boiled chicken on his birthdays  he’d open my bedroom
door with his muzzle like he owned the space
and he would sleep on our beds
with no shame

and that   well, that’s the true story