LatinosUSA

Lessons Learned

Being irresistibly pretty only gets you so far,
like up to his mouth
which you assumed would lead
to his heart.
But he was just hungry
and when you stick your tongue
far enough back in his throat you only find the stomach.
Home to all greed, gluttony and silly girls past.

~~

Victim of The Short Attention Span

My little brother swaddles his teddy bear,
rocks him against his chest,
coos in his ear.
I smile, thinking of making a tutorial on
How to:
Build Kind Men
and Careful Lovers.
Yet, in the next moment he’s throwing the stuffy to the ground.
Unraveling the clothes
so meticulously strewn on.
He laughs a manic, child’s laughter which bounces
off the walls,
off my heart,
off the threaded smile pressed to the carpet.
I remember being out past bedtime,
remember my boy laughing.
His confusion bouncing
off the hood of our cars,
off the lips he just kissed,
Or -alternatively- the lips that kissed his
as I told him I waited.
But never mind,
never mind,
I lay down next to Teddy on the floor.
Press my fake, threaded smile into the carpet.

~~

Just Curious

A few miscellaneous questions for you to think about today
Like, if you could play any instrument, which one would you play?
As a follow-up, why can’t you, who taught you to think that way?
And do you think you’re capable of learning?
Like a language, or a habit, or hobby?
Is it worth doing something if you only do it poorly?
Is the purpose of everything just for it to be pretty?
And sorta, maybe on the topic–before we move on,
how much of you do you have to give up fore you’re like basically gone?
Til you’re just a
perfectly normal, undefective, undetected, unaffected, but fully accepted,
very regular person who is well-loved by everyone but one?
Because if you’re not you, have you really won?
Also, what do you define as being kind?
Does it just boil down to saying ‘sorry’ all the time?
And how much do you want off your plate? Where do you draw the line?
Hey, chat, can you help? I’m tired tonight.
My writing, my math, my cooking?
How on earth will I keep my living?
Oh, you hadn’t thought of that? Did I catch you off guard?
Good, that’s the goal, but we think so little these days, it really wasn’t that hard.

~~

I’d Like to Offer my Full Issued Apology:

For being too white,
and too blonde,
and too girl.
Sorry I’m not tortured,
or a princess,
or both.
Sorry I sound just like the other girls,
and watch the same shows,
and eat the same food,
and still am not loved the same.
That doesn’t make a good poem.
That’s just called high school.
That’s just called nondescript.
I say get your hair wet,
don’t be too good for the splashing children,
or not good enough for the girls who are pretty by accident.
Sorry that’s all the advice I have.
Sorry that I’ve run out of tutorials to teach you myself.
How to: butter noodles
How to: oldest daughter carry grievous weight so carefully
I like to watch others’ online now.
How to: good
How to: pretty
Sorry I still don’t know what they were about.
We can watch them back together sometime.
Sorry I grew up spoiled rotten,
still see God in every tree instead of my
fill-in-the-blank
full of soul in their last moments.
Sorry I’m no good at relating,
can’t admit just how gentle I was raised.
Flowers in my hair,
asleep in my father’s arms.
Promise I feel bad about it though.
Sorry that I find something to complain about
when I have nothing to complain about.
Maybe I deserve something different,
maybe a harsher life would have borne a wiser girl who
should speak and
should write
and I wouldn’t ramble on hoping you listen while I tell you
‘I’m sorry’.
I would tell you
‘Listen up’
and you would.

~~

The Husband that Looks Pretty Underground

I picture my husband dead, prematurely
–not that I truly can, given that he’s still an idea.
Can’t describe how his face would look in a coffin when the man I imagine is faceless.
His death will make an enemy of my heart,
Cause it to deny the rest of my body blood as though it could be saved for him instead.
Unless, of course, his death is a miracle
–a redemption from a psychotic feral hog in human skin.
In which case, I would not like a husband at all.
Over cake
(My dad’s birthday dinner),
the conversation turns.
My eleven-year-old cousin, her mouth full of sugar,
leans forward at the table.
“Last week, we drove past the place he left her body five years ago.”
She details the documentary she watched while sleepy in her baby pink pajamas.
“I love this kind of stuff.”
I shiver,
question the morals of the production of the show,
the morals of her mother to let her watch it,
–the idea of telling your daughter, however passively,
This could be your fate.
My cousin twirls a piece of hair, frizzy with chlorine, around her finger.
“I don’t know why she didn’t just leave him”.
The discussion continues in un-empathetic logic.
Imagine the ring on her finger.
Imagine him on one knee
–now back on his feet.
Imagine her joy.
(Was it joy?)
Imagine his hands, strong,
so strong.
They reach to gently touch her face,
just to brush a stray hair from her eyes.
“I love this kind of stuff.”