I

 

(Citizen) (Illegal)

Mexican woman (illegal) and Mexican man (illegal)

have a Mexican (illegal)-American (citizen).

is the baby more Mexican or American?

place the baby in the arms of the mother (illegal).

if the mother holds the baby (citizen)

too long, does the baby become illegal?

the baby is a boy (citizen). he goes to school (citizen).

his classmates are American (citizen). he is outcast (illegal).

his “hellos” are in the wrong language (illegal).

he takes the hyphen separating loneliness (Mexican)

from friendship (American) and jabs it at the culprit (illegal).

himself (illegal). his own traitorous tongue (illegal).

his name (illegal). his mom (illegal). his dad (illegal).

take a Mexican woman (illegal) and a Mexican man (illegal).

if they have a baby and the baby looks white enough to pass (citizen).

if the baby grows up singing Selena songs to his reflection (illegal).

if the baby hides from el cucuy and la migra (illegal).

if the baby (illegal) (citizen) grows up to speak broken Spanish (illegal)

and perfect English (citizen). if the boy’s nickname is Güerito (citizen).

if the boy attends college (citizen). if the boy only dates women (illegal)

of color (illegal). if the boy (illegal)

uses phrases like “women of color” (citizen).

if the boy (illegal) (citizen) writes (illegal) poems (illegal).

if the boy (citizen) (illegal) grows up (illegal) and can only write (illegal)

this story in English (citizen), does that make him more

American (citizen) or Mexican (illegal)?

 

My Parents Fold Like Luggage

my parents fold like luggage

into the trunk of a Toyota Tercel.

stars glitter against a black sky.

from the sky, the Tercel is a small lady

bug traveling north. from the sky,

borders do not exist. the Tercel stops

in front of a man in green. stars glitter

like broken glass. the night so heavy

it chokes. in the trunk, it is starless.

my parents protect this moment. this now.

what folds them into the trunk of a Tercel.

the belief that the folding will end.

it doesn’t. dollars fold into bills. my parents

near breaking. broke. they protect what might

unfold them to discover they are six:

a family. if the man in green opens the trunk,

the road folds back. this moment & everything

that follows disappears into the ink of a police report.

why doesn’t he open the trunk? my parents say

god blessed us. maybe they are right,

but i think about that night & wonder where

god was—a million miles away in the stars,

in the shared breath between my parents, maybe

everywhere. maybe nowhere. from the sky,

the man in green is so small it is impossible

to see him wave. from the sky, it is impossible

to hear whether my parents cheer or pray

as the car steals north.

 

Mexican Heaven

all of the Mexicans sneak into heaven.

St. Peter has their names on the list,

but the Mexicans haven’t trusted a list

since Ronald Reagan was president.

 

River Oaks Mall

it’s hard to hold onto a secret

whether or not anyone is looking.

when the girl i have a crush on asks

why i keep looking at her, i say it’s not

like i like you, gosh. denial is

one of the best ways to confess.

when the teacher asks who brought beans

for lunch, i blame it on the boy next to me.

i bite my tongue when my stomach protests.

trying too hard is another way to confess.

my family takes a Saturday stroll

through the mall dressed in church clothes.

every other kid in jeans, t-shirts, & Jordans.

fun fact: when you have to try to blend in

you can never blend in. my dad gives me a penny

to throw into a fountain that makes dreams

come true. all my dreams except one.

my family trying so hard to be American

it was transparent.

 

My Therapist Says Make Friends with Your Monsters

we are gathered in truth,

because my therapist said

it was time to stop running,

& i pay my therapist too much

to be wrong, so i am here.

my monsters look almost human

in the sterile office light.

my monsters say they want

to be friends. i remember

when we first met, me & my

monsters. i remember the moment

i planted each one. each time

i tried to shed a piece of myself,

it grew into a monster. take this one

with the collar of belly fat

the monster called Chubby, Husky,

Gordito. i climbed out of that skin

as fast as i could, only to see some spirit

give it legs. i ran & it never stopped

chasing me. each new humiliation

coming to life & following after me.

after me, a long procession of sad

monsters. each monster hungry

to drag me back, to return me

to the dirt i came from. ashes

to ashes, fat boy to fat.

my monsters crowd around me,

my therapist says i can’t

make the monsters disappear

no matter how much i pay her.

all she can do is bring them

into the room, so i can get

to know them, so i can learn

their names, so i can see

clearly their toothless mouths,

their empty hands, their pleading eyes.

 

Boy & The Belt

the belt is an extension of dad & dad is an extension of god. the boy is an extension of dad, too. the belt is just one thread tying them together. the boy prays the belt stays wrapped around dad’s waist. the belt does not believe in god, but if the belt did believe in anything, the belt would call it purpose. the belt began as skin on a cow. its purpose was to protect & it failed. the boy knows all about that. the boy has purpose too. dad & god & mostly he fails. the belt’s new purpose is to hold—to contain dad’s expanding waist—except when the boy fights, then the belt is born again as a classroom ruler with the day’s lesson. maybe the belt & the boy can rebel. the boy tugs at the thread that will bring dad & the belt. the boy won’t lie about his bruised brother or call it anything noble. the boy fights because he is bigger. dad says he has no choice. the belt says it has no choice. the boy understands he displeases god. when the belt meets the boy, the belt kisses the boy & leaves purple lipstick. dad understands this as an act of love. the belt doesn’t know about love. the belt knows it completed its job. & the boy hears love.

 

The Voice in My Head Speaks English Now

snow finds me underneath layers. maybe

the cold wants to hang out. take me skiing.

wants me to see winter isn’t a bad country

& it’s not, but i’m still shivering. i make snow

angels & come out snot-nosed. throat blistering.

it never stops being cold. my new voice fit

with coughing. my friends say summer is coming.

they’re lying. on gray days, i wear the sun, but

it falls off my shoulders. if you catch my mom

in good light, it’s impossible to tell where the sun ends.

i tell myself that’s where i’m from, but i’m not

sure. when i was a baby i used to get fevers.

maybe that’s why my parents planted me in snow.

now i’m a long way from the fire my parents feared

& so close to this new blue flame.

 

Rumors

you know how rumors get born out of spit & breath, but got whole legs

by the time they land, so that’s how holding hands becomes hooking up

or pregnant. listen to everything. don’t believe anything. once My Homie

Since Second Grade told me The Girl From First Period With The Cute

Smile

was wearing a scarf to cover up some hickies & The Girl From First Period

wasn’t even wearing a scarf that day. what’s the difference between a lie

& a truth. a lie hasn’t happened yet. we grew up on the good love songs

as well as The Juke Jams. Back That Ass Up was on the first CD I ever

bought.

so few of us had even seen Love. we had only met Love’s fucked-up cousins:

Divorce & Shouldn’t You Be Wearing Your Wedding Ring. My Homie Who

Started Smoking Cigarettes In The Eighth Grade had both her parents &

she said

they only loved each other on the 1st & 15th. my parents hadn’t kissed

since the steel mill closed. that’s a lie that feels true. some of us practiced

saying i love you to the mirror. that was a lie we wanted to believe.