before there were legs, bikini lines, eyebrows, upper lips,
underarms, forearms, labias, assholes, chins,
or the waxing table there were houses
& two immigrants who cleaned them. there were sinks
inside of those houses. carpeted staircases, tile floors,
windows with curtains like your eyelashes, closets
your mother’s whole family could live in
if she brought them here with her but instead
she left—joo need to heat up de wax to
250 degrees—your sister played with cats
at the top of the stairs. she scratched
behind their ears & pulled on their tails
& they yowled. she gave them names
they never asked for & once a cat opened
up her little claws & scratched her back. the cat hid
under the dining table to escape the wrath
of your mother, who put neosporin
on the scratch—with a leetle bit of cotton
joo have to test it with the wooden paleta
because if joo are no careful jor skin could
look like a e-snake—your father whistled
while scrubbing the toilets
he danced into rooms
that would never be his own,
wiggling his hips to a song
that was not there.
his hairy dark arms
wrapped around your mother’s waist
like vacuum tubes. later, she would point
to clay pots with old flowers in them, or coffee
with not enough milk to show what kind of color
he was when she loved him. before the beauty
business there was a hot homeland
with gossiping aunts, there were mountains
there were things we enjoyed more because we didn’t
have enough—noise, basta, joo are old
enough joo can do dis by jorself now, every week
joo should do dis, joo don’t need
my help—you were there the whole time,
in your mother’s belly, weighing her back down
with the heaviness of your life, inhaling fumes
from the windex & the bleach, you have no name
but you have nails & hair
like your father’s, thick & dark
from an origin with ships,
origin he never really traced.
you will come out late, you will—wait wait wait,
‘spera! leddit dry!—& if you start waxing early enough
the hair will grow back thinner & if you’re in america
long enough you can get rid of your accent
you can—pool it out faster, like-a faster,
like-a harder en de opposite direction, joo don’t wanna
reep de e-skin off esa cuca, ha-ha!—
the best part about waxing is after
when you are looking at the strip of wax
at all of the hair sticking up like bodies
or fossils or misshapen street signs
all pointing to
der we go, see?
finally!
oof.
we can see jor face now