border is a line that marks difference. On one side, the American narrative;
on the other, the Mexican narrative.
Identity, for me, functions like the borderlands: a site of hybridization,
The Poet Behind the
The Poetry Chapbook
Excerpt from "Poem
after Frieda Kahlo’s
Painting The Broken Column"
On a bench, beneath a candle-lit window
whose sheer curtains resemble honey
sliding down a jar, Kahlo lifts her skirts.
A brown monkey chews a tobacco leaf
between her calves, tail brushing her thigh.
A skirt falls, its hem splashes on the concrete
like urine. A ruby ring on her forefinger.
No, the tip of her cigarette. Smoke rising.
The long hair of an old woman drowning.
Once a man offered me his heart like a glass of water. No, once…Here’s
a joke for you. Why do Mexicans make tamales at Christmas? So they have something
to unwrap. A lover told me that. I stared into his eyes believing the brown
surrounding his pupils were rings, like Saturn’s. I have to sit down
to say this. Once a man offered me his heart and I said no. Not because I didn’t
love him. Not because he was a beast or white—I couldn’t love him.
Do you understand? In bed while we slept, our bodies inches apart, the dark
between our flesh a wick. It was burning down. And he couldn’t feel it.
Ask me anything.