I don't know how it happened.

It started like any other day.

I was rolling the dough in between my fingers.

I was making something. What was it?

I don't remember.

Ma said to get the tortillas ready;

Grandpa, Grandma, Aunts, Uncles,
Nephews, Nieces, and Cousins would
be here any minute now.

The dough, it was the flesh of the dead
in between my filthy fingers. I was
killing something; the space between
me and that thing was only a million
or so molecules...

Between two materials.

I made a break for the restroom.

Clumps of it's carcass were squeezed
in between my brown knuckles. I spoke a few
words. The language wasn't mine.
And yet, I used it to settle bets.
I used it to talk my brother off that ledge.
I gave my lovers the best of days
with no regrets.

How silly it is to watch the tongue click,
click, and click against the teeth!

I washed my hands, but didn't use the soap.

I spoke a few more words, but felt
more like a ghost. I got paler,
and paler,
and

paler,

with each O

I made with my rub red lips.

Snap out if it, I said.

But why, in English?

And that's when the storm came.

A rumble of incessant taps against the door.

It was like my head was in the wrong part of
the clouds. Where lightning screeches like
an eagle on the prowl; where the rain
pours down; pregnant with the intent
to destroy; with the intent to push
the dead infant out.

I never made it past that night.

I don't know who is who
anymore without Mother
or Aunt
or Niece, or Cousin
there to tell me who

speaks to me with such tenderness.

As though I weren't the only

planet outside the stars.