LatinosUSA

Flying through winter sky, the

airplane pilot a funny guy: “who wants to stop

in Aruba?” he asks. “Before we reach Vermont?”

He and I moving along at 600 mph

jouncing, engines humming; I wake with chin

on my chest; a chick next to me has a silver snake

around her wrist and fingernails painted with

Wite-Out.

Would she freak if I shoved my hand down

between her doughy thighs?

I start to fade-out again, and soon

am floating in amniotic fluid—

my amniotic self, with

my mother, navigating her way down stairs

while trying not to upset me.

She loves me.

I love her.