The good   est     girl    
Sometimes    the smartest   and
I was taught to  be ambitious   and
Although    he wanted us to be tough, somehow
We ended   up weaker than    we ever
Thought we’d be      so brittle     we cry
When strangers    get angry at us    like
When    we went to Atlantic City
And decided to sit in different seats     and the
Whole bus     yelled   and inside, well
I knew they were right       about
Us being wrong
I was   my father’s daughter     before
I even knew     who I was

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”

Sometimes    it’s just easier to dim  the silence
with conversations from fictional    heroes, villains,   normal
people   so unlike us

Cooking side  by   side    I play music to
somehow        tell you all things   I cannot say
because   you won’t believe me       when I say

I want this to work  

Last night   you said  I wasn’t quite THERE
when you    pounded inside    you said your wrist never
hurt so much  from *******
all my head   thought   was     ****, is my body
that   hard to  *** to

I could understand how  you found it   upsetting
that   I was so   self-conscious    that I couldn’t even
see how you might like me
so you chose   to hurt me like I had hurt you

as I narrate your every move----cutting the tomatoes, the onions,
cracking the eggs      you signal the flaws within all my
descriptions          and  without mercy, you say

I think   I need to get myself    a new narrator

If I tell you how much I weigh,  
the weight of my mind
the mass   of my body    and the burden
of my histories
or make you see    instead  
the weight of yours  
what will become of our children?
Will they  hold   all the things we hate
about ourselves most  
or will they be    sacred  

as all children
should be?

Panamanian myth woman-was it true?
They left you hanging there just for the view?
And you kissed an imp for the sake of emotion,
But, he cursed you instead with his peoples’ potions,
Built you a rose-bed with a hole so you’d fall through?

Panamanian myth woman-tell me things as you recall,
Did he sing you to sleep and turn you into a doll?
Were you bleeding strong when they bit you to bits?
Did you ever suspect his love was counterfeit,
Or did your faith die with their psalms and alcohol?

Panamanian myth woman-from where did you rise?
They said from the West, where a cat gave you its eyes,
And when the men first pinched your cheeks,
You scratched and gave the sharpest shriek,
So loud, even the moon was traumatized.

Panamanian myth woman-did it hurt?
Their hands yanking at the seams of your skirt?
The way they fooled you was as old as mankind,
A simple trick of the heart and mind,
In the end, you crawled for hours in the dirt.

Panamanian myth woman-what did you take?
For you left the land barren and full of snakes.
And all their men still curse your story,
Of how they maimed your status and glory,
Your body, suspended at their village gate.

Panamanian myth woman-is that true?
They left you hanging there just for the view?
But others say you flew on West,
And became the muse for a hero’s quest,
And he built you a tower nothing could break through.

the choices were endless   the maps
you could trek   and run through   the shrubs of
all colors    and whether or not a killer would
catch up to your swiftness and  hang you on a hook

on the screen   I could see the reflection of your eyes
how big they   get  and how  disciplined your fingers are
on the control   as you press A B  or C   or D

how  endless were the choices   of who
you could be   and also, the clothes  and the hairstyles and the poses
how endless…

YOU are the smell of
earth after
rain
but they tell me i
smell of weakness all
over why is it that
i cannot recognize
myself anymore and i
wish i were floating above
and could send you
my words and touches
with the wind but you cannot
see my face or my body
and what happens with the past
and i’m not making sense
because like every good story
teller i don’t tell you
all at first.
You are the smell
of earth after water
pours out from the sky
to the trees, down from the clouds
and when
the water touches my rough
skin everything is broken,
like still moments, watching
sleeping mermaids and speckled
mermen.

Woo-wah Hur-rah   hey Zach,

Is this thing   funny or not?

It’s mid-March already
and I’m still sad and fat  but hey,
I’ve got a cat  

all slick black  with one white spot

Woo-wah Hur-rah   hey Zach?

Bet you saw  (well did you?)
its   street-smart    jaw   ******
a New York City pigeon’s   *****-*** wing    

oh man,

that coil sling cat jumped forward    I screamed
as he clung to his prized catch

my cat, it swings and wrings the things that fly all around our terrace

Holy Mackerel,  did you see that?
almost gave me the shiver to see him jump so high,
that little cat  testing death  

for a taste of  pigeon  pie  (or fries)
whichever suits his fancy

Hey Zach, catch  that-
there’s a small cat on the  2nd floor
waiting for a Ramsey Gordon worthy dish,
Doors and windows can’t hole him in,

And I fear  it’s a meal he might   literally   fall for.

Hur-rah, fupa? Or maybe something less…you know.
My cat    lunged like a living sling-shot  
almost over the railing
Pigeon-pied eyed, without a thought

****, testing death

Hey, Zach?
Isn’t that funny?

when i was younger   I’d go to
work with my father    and back then,
the company was small   and my father’s
boss    took me to   the back   where
they had started to    change the
furniture   and paint the walls    cause
the company was growing    and
he made me go through a whole
pamphlet of    colors   for carpets
and he asked   me:
so ***,   what would look best here?
And I pointed   at
pine needle    green.

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

I told my good friend
That New York City    is like
A jungle      an acquired taste   we
Were in a car     visiting foster parents
Who were    mostly   Dominican   mostly
Old women   too     and I looked down
At my phone     sent you a picture
Of myself        and waited   for
A response
If you’d ever think   i was the
Prettiest girl   in the world

The nonsense remarks our fathers tell us, for example:
We are all beautiful inside and we must get a
good education. Well, for the most part, they are right.
But my father also    mocks   the sound of
my   tears   and    when I
eat      my mother  strikes my hand  as I
grab for   a piece of naan   or something
like, you can imagine.    I feel weak at
times despite the   calories,
like a shriveled berry.
Sometimes,  I call a boy
when my eyes have dried  so as to not disrupt
a balance. I am sure he may feel
lonely at times, but he runs and
absorbs himself in his sciences
and religious texts.
Me?      I am a rat girl who digs
old things from their hideouts in my room.    My old
stories and fantasies
of a prince who reads my hidden letters,
finds them first actually,
instead of my brown hand          pulling          his ear          toward
me.  Me, saying softly:
look
inside
here.

I was thinking about  my upcoming trip to see you
and for some odd reason, my mind did not drift to
worry-wort antics   or end-of-the-world scenarios
instead  I remembered about that time
I peed on myself because I was so drunk  
and my shirt was heavy with puke

and you took me home
(I can’t imagine your embarrassment on the 6)
and you took all my clothes off and laid me down
on your bed, covered me with the warmest blanket
and held me like there was no tomorrow
and you whispered: “ it’ll be okay.”

And it was okay.
And you even put my clothes in the washer.

you resemble the boys of my past     how once
I wanted   a broken   boy to find me in a well
and lure me   out with    his wild   eyes     sharp nose
blond  hairs        you       talk    mad     and quick
like you’re     high   on something   strong
and   I can’t keep up
I just listen     wanna please you     wanna be   worthy   of
something   confident    like   you
so I     just      listen        
let myself       fall for you

Funny enough, he had been coming
up Snake Hill, was crossing the street and passed
by the Jewish bagel shop
I knew it was him the moment he  walked by
and his eyes
skimmed me without  feeling
Half of me wanted him to recognize me entirely  
including the awkward conversations and little notes on
the stairs   the poems and songs I’d sent him to woe
his heart    but maybe I just wanted his privilege
his strength    his shadow  to become mine

Vlad was still himself,  iced eyes, and blonde hairs sticking out
of his baseball cap
He was still tall and resembled the likes of a demi-God, a character
fit for myths and fairytales

And I was still me or had I become better or worse?
Still my stubby self, desperate for the affection of something
legendary

You want to separate yourself from me sometimes   but
my side isn’t willing to let go

At the   gay bar    everyone tipsy   jell-o shots
We   watched   the drag queens    perform   and then
We watched    the male dancers   all beautiful    sculpted
They all    knew  how to tease     and we met
Sergio      and this kid from    Venezuela    we asked him
First     are you Russian?     And then this kid from North Carolina,
Seemed    deep    but the more we spoke to him    the more
Empty he appeared    and I felt sad     staring into his
Big blue eyes      grazed his strong thigh    he was a sweet boy
His left  ear was pierced      and before you know it    i’m  running
Back stage,    the drag queens   saying   honey, you can’t come in here
And I’m crying my eyes out       saying i need to find Sergio from North
Carolina     and    they can’t seem to find him   well, because
He wasn’t Sergio     from  NC     everyone we met that night
Seemed to   have merged     only afterwards,      did I begin
To remember      individual      stories.

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

I was walking up  and you were
Coming down    from Snake hill  on a late
Saturday  night  and all I kept wondering was
How   could   i get you   to touch me

Somewhere     where    I   was   not
You shook and pondered over my mean words
Words of jealousy      an insecure     spirit.
You are my best friend and yet
I screamed
I insulted
I spoke of beautiful ghosts and made you
Curious            but more than anything
Sad.
Still, I feel sad too.
But here, we can at least grow.
We can be.
Somewhere    where    I    was    not
You     shook      in another woman’s gaze,
pondered over my mean words,

Our insecure spirits.

Write of me,
dark eyes and *****
face with drying pink tears,
red with blood,
from dehydration.
Speak to me,
and when your mouth
touches mine,
spit sugar
down my throat.
Walk through brambles,
stupid prince who
will get the beauty
despite
big feet and long
hair.
Do you know
the feeling,
when you’re in too
deep?
Sweet story of your heart,
bitter when it starts;
I’m curious, sad maybe,
write of me. Ellis is not a name.
I am not Ellis.
I do not conquer
hearts of wolves.
Write of me,
prince,
ignorant however,
with sugar-fleshed
cheeks.
Sing.
Sing.

as my tendencies begin to stop---for panic   attacks
and anxiety-fueled
nights      of non-stop thinking  
back-and-forths about the
nature  of my spirit, good or bad
I start to fear more instead  
are all the people I love dead?
will my  dying dog kick his way into my room
and speak to me    truths  
I can’t bear to hear?

My sister is the keeper of nice things  some
cheap  and others   expensive
like Pandora bracelets and quality hair products
for her curls  and she likes  fine dining
and also Entenmann's pound cake,  just flour, butter, and
high fructose corn syrup

My sister is the keeper of nice things, that smell good
like the soaps she uses, the conditioners and body wash
from Marshalls (the good stuff) and those yellow Vitamin Waters
from 7Eleven and the Cheetos.

My sister, she is the keeper of nice things, like
fresh laundry, and comfy sweaters  and hot chocolate
on winter days  and laughter after school,
She is the keeper of nice things, colored socks and
forbidden pastries, creamy fillings and boy talk,
inside jokes and meaningful music

My sister, she is the keeper of nice things,
like books by Jane Austen and Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
like rantings on a rainy day and a million other things
I can’t think of.

My sister-she is the keeper of nice things, that smell good
some cheap, others expensive…

They come out and I wrote
to you that I write nothing new. I write
the same thing in different words and
people don’t change in my plots. So I wrote
to Envy and asked her if she cries often
and why it is she hates women. Maybe she’s a
lesbian, maybe she just loves us too much.

how strange to have all my problems laid out
in front of me like a textbook
they tell me what my symptoms are
the emptiness
makes me doubt whether it really is ever real
the emptiness
the impulse to   eat  and destroy

my story almost sounds outdated

in my head,  you are made of honey and steel and I am
always trying to appeal to your sweetness
and get
past your metal

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.

I spoke   all excited   and giddy   about
how an excellent   worker     I am     but really
am I?    so  after  the conversation    I don’t
know what I wanted from you
maybe   like   a “good job”    but  you were silent
and I understood      no matter how much
I want  you   to think   how cool    I am
I can’t      force   it  outta you

Every time   I beg for your    attention    
I remind   you
how much of a beggar   I am

The day I drunk   dialed you
Was the way   I burnt    the trail
I built    to reach   you.

Ear   muffs on       you always
said   that      it all goes through one   ear
and comes out    the other     well, ma
sorry    to say it might be true
you       stare at me  as I finish  my french fries
why do you look on like that?     have I hurt you?
as fat  as I may  be    I’ve got more soul   than
you ever  did      you wish to be loved by your mother
and sisters          loved unconditionally     so much
that you can’t even    give me that

thick   my arms are   as I place them on the counter top,
smacking   hard   as you cry   telling me how my body
doesn’t deserve      to be loved    

Mother, I’ve found  solace   in being a wolf
natural    misunderstood    hungry  and         beautiful

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.

As I grow   or whatever grown-ups call it
I begin to realize how broken    I was    how even
now, I still am      and how    I choose to
hurt you sometimes    because  I don’t want to
face   my fears   last time we got
drunk, I cried  uncontrollably   begging you to provide
answers to the greatest   questions of all      
like    what is this   the love I have for my parents     my dead dog
where did he go     nothing is forever     so what is it
that ties   you and I together     what is it
what is it?
How many times have you held me   close   wishing
I’d answer   my own   enigmas

and still, you call me back
and still, you hold
and still, you care

how you do it exactly, I don’t know

Destiny   speaks   like a Queen     even
though    you may not love     her now      I don’t envy
her   for the love you gave her      I envy
her strength    for being  able to survive without it