my abuelita: running through the house,
wiping her hands on her apron,
trying to find her flip-phone
ringing on the loudest setting.
when she finds it she says ALO five times, does not wait
for an answer on the other end.
my mom: dragging me
to the kitchen sink, pointing to the faucet
& saying this is the penis pointing
to the drain & saying dis is jor vagina.
it only takes one drop & joo pregnant.
i remember this when i’m getting
my first kiss on a safe street in a quiet town.
my cousin cesar: is thirty-four, a father, husband, & fixes
cellphones for a living in guatemala. he has a lot
of tattoos—you can see them in this picture,
under the wires plugged into his arms.
tío elder: calls my mother so she can hear
the mariachis playing as they lower
my cousin into the grave.
my first tattoo: abuelita as medusa,
with pearls & snakes for hair.
i hide it from my mom as long as i can.
my abuelita: telling me to talk
to tío elder & write down numbers. i don’t know
what the numbers are for but i repeat
them with fluency into the phone
the phrase: hablo español pero tengo que practicarlo más
i am fifteen & show my mother a story i wrote about her.
she says: is this really how you see
me? she says, you make me
she says, you make me sound ignorant.
i am 18 at a college party: a man pulls
on my arm hair without asking
says by the way i love this shit
i am 24 on the blue line in chicago: someone
i will never see again says my arm hairs are
his jam—like marmalade or a punk rock cover
of a Selena song. he pets them
down & says they just need some sleep
i don’t know if i feel in love
feel beautiful
or just feel
maybe we all need some rest
my little sister: smashes
all of the lipstick
on my older sister’s bed with her tiny palm.
to get out of trouble she cries & says, mariajose
needs a hug.
my first kiss tweeting about: needing a hug
before he killed himself last spring.
the five girls at his funeral saying: he was my first
kiss, too. his laugh jumping out
of his brother’s mouth: a little boy
dressed up as a ghost.
the picture of my cousin’s funeral: sent
over facebook messenger. my uncle’s brown
hand on the coffin, his heavy mustache twitching.
my phone: ringing
me not answering, letting
the panicked voicemails
grow fur & teeth because
you are: running your fingers
through the rooms of my hair
you are saying: your hair is so black.
& then: your hair is so wild.
there has always been a You
there have always been years
of untangling after.
history: repeats itself
or: happens all at once
or: gets stuck in the drain
or: is uploaded to the Cloud.
i don’t know what the Cloud is,
really: it appeared
on the horizon years ago and sailed closer
maybe: the Cloud is historical memory.
the reason i wince when some people touch me
or: the reason i need to be touched.
the loser of the war: has the best memory.
the winner: gets to forget.
did you know: that after we die
our hair still grows?
picture: a field of skulls with rock & roll mullets
picture: pubes over bones
picture: a blanket of hair tucking us in, forever.