after Larry Levis
You wear faded black
and paint your face white as the blessed
teeth of Jesus
because brown isn’t high art
unless you are a beautiful savage.
All the useless tautologies—
This is me. I am this. I am me.
In your ragged
Salvation Army sweaters, in your brilliant
awkwardness. White dresses
like Emily Dickinson.
I dreaded that first Robin,
so, at fifteen you slash
your wrists.
You’re not allowed
to shave your legs in the hospital.
The atmosphere
that year: sometimes you exist
and sometimes you think you’re Mrs. Dalloway.
This is bold—existing.
You do not understand your parents
who understand you less:
your father who listens to ABBA after work,
your mother who eats expired food.
How do you explain what you have done?
With your hybrid mouth, a split tongue.
How do you explain the warmth
sucking you open, leaving you
like a gutted machine?
It is a luxury to tell a story.
How do you explain
that the words are made by more
than your wanting?
Te chingas o te jodes.
At times when you speak Spanish, your tongue
is flaccid inside your rotten mouth:
disgraciada, sin vergüenza.
At the hospital they’re calling your name
with an accent on the E. They bring you
tacos, a tiny golden crucifix.
Your father has run
all the way from the factory.
Erika L. Sánchez