1.
My mother’s Америка is always sunny.
It’s Floreeda, not Florida. It’s Russian-dubbed Hollywood
flicks from early 2000s.
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I’ve always lived in the shadow
of a corner, nightgown drooping like confetti.
The decorations were supposed
to be up by today, but I’m already exploding
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My family makes the sign of the holy cross at everything ––
jokes, bills, bad news, thunderstorms, sad commercials.
My grandmother taught me how to pray, taking my hands
in hers and gliding them in front of my chest, ending with knuckles
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Moe from the Three Stooges with his black and white aggression, and instinctively
understanding the utility of violence in vaudeville and silent acting; the pointed finger in your
face, one slap predicting another, and so on.
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I used to think that I understood your pain
Because I understood the sharp heat
Of a masala-steak gatsby, drenched in Peri-Peri sauce:
A self-inflicted, cosmetic pain that lasted
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I was once free to give and let live until the tides turned
ship after ship against my shores, ripping my sandy skirt,
shredding me like blades of Bermuda.
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What are we
wounded creatures snarling at a crooked sun,
panting in our pride of tired shoulders— uncomfortable asking
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It’s illegal in Germany because the dumpster and everything in it
is the property of the supermarket until the moment it is taken to a landfill.
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She was house poor, mortgaged to the moon, light-starved,
married to a closed door, furious. No outlets, nowhere
to tell the story. It outed in hailstorms of rage, as it will.
I forgive her for this. 20 years later, I am house poor,
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