My cousins and I,
we don’t marry.
We’re too old
by Mexican standards.
And the relatives
have long suspected
we can’t anymore
in white.
My cousins and I,
we’re all old
maids at thirty.
Who won’t
dress children,
and never
saints—
though
we undress them.
The aunts,
they’ve given up on us.
No longer nudge—You’re next.
Instead—
What happened in your childhood?
Who hurt you, honey?
But we’ve studied
marriages too long—
Aunt Ariadne,
Tía Vashti,
Comadre Penelope,
querida Malintzín,
Señora Pumpkin Shell—
lessons that served us well.