Roger Was Man of the House

and he let us know it

soon as he moved in.

I’d been living on her

couch a couple months

doing what I could

but Tía Rosa was grateful

having another “adult” there

helping with bills, kids.

He worked under the table—

construction for a

septic tank company

and she didn’t seem to care

he smelled bad, like sweat

and dirt and cigarette smoke

didn’t care he was rude

never said please or thank you

like she made sure me and my cousins did

didn’t care he said

I’d have to dress like a guy

if I wanted to live there.

          “It just makes him uncomfortable,

          mijo,” she told me. She wouldn’t

          call me mija anymore either.

So I did what any

self-respecting girl would do.

Carried my clothes in a bag,

changed when I left the house.

I didn’t like it but all shoulda been fine.

                                Of course it wasn’t.

The last straw came

when Rosa was at work.

Roger in the bathroom doorway

beefy arms folded, laughing

to watch me scrabble around looking for

the medicine I hid under the sink.

           “I flushed it all.”

And, Girl,

I wanted to kill him.

Didn’t know how

I was going to get money

for more or whether

Lupe, with her pills

and injectables from Tijuana,

was even around.

           “Didn’t look like

           no aspirin to me.”

Before I could stand

he was across the bathroom

grabbing me, pulling

my arm up

behind my back.

I thought I’d pass out.

                    “And if I ever find out

                    you touched your cousins,

                    I’ll kill you, pervert.”

He slammed me

against the tub

then left.

Fire blazed up my shoulder, neck,

but that wasn’t

the worst feeling.

I leaned into the peeling wall,

wondered how long I had till the

hormones in my system would wear off—

and added

Roger to the list            of people I hate.

I left that night

when everyone

was sleeping

but first I emptied his wallet

(only time I took anything

didn’t belong to me).

Oh—and I called the DMV

to narc on him

for his unregistered car.

Guess you could say

I sometimes have a problem

with lettin’ things go.