Once, my sister taught me the washing machine,
that Selena dance move where you swish
your hips around and move in a circle,
like you’re a spinning plate of cakes.
It’s this way and then that way and like that.
It’s Mami’s hips, it’s my hips, Abuelita’s.
Then she said, Don’t tell Mami but I lost my V-Card.
What? It’s not a big deal, don’t make me feel paranoid.
I ask her what paranoid meant.
She said, Think about it like, you want to go to the mall
with your friends but Mami says no but then you go anyway
and the whole time you’re paranoid that you’re gonna see Mami.
I don’t even know why they say lost it.
’Cause what if it was on purpose, you know?
You grab a bag of your favorite clothes
and take the bus downtown in the middle
of the day, leave them on an empty bench
that isn’t too covered in pigeon shit
in a sunny enough spot and you don’t care
who takes it or tries on your favorite purple skirt
because now it finally belongs to somebody.
I came home with a hickey once and Mami
said, That’s not nice, a phrase which made me feel
like I was naked in front of many old men while
my mother wept from afar in a glass box.
Walking back to my apartment I swear to God a car is following me.
My therapist asked if I ever feel like someone is following me at night.
A question that offended me, a woman in America.
How much is it me and how much is it America? Where do I start
and where do America’s flayed-off limbs end?
Fumbling with my keys, I turn around and I see a man
in his car. Sunglasses on even though it’s nighttime.
Eating a pastry in a hurry.
She’s opened up something she is unaware of
like when she’s all borracha
and says too much at the party
and the information sticks with guests until
they go home and they try to scratch it off
but end up scratching their partner.
There are reports of Selena in pizza shops.
Selena at parties.
Selena signing on to another record deal.
A remembrance tour.
The evil Melissa points to the mirror
and Melissa sees herself old, balding,
forgotten.