youdonotdoxx's profile

When he first called me, querida, he tasted bold,chickoried- like those beans his abuela picks with her cracked hands. We had crawled through a hole in some fence, climbed over the debris and garbage left behind eager to leave our mark somewhere. Mira he said, the can hissing out a w – it is just an e on it’s back. My love is on those walls, it’s in the crook of his nose, his clay colored skin- red and brown, and the crucifix on his wall that watches us sleep—it’s in these traces of his sangr...

1. Tengo tres anos the first time I see where my family is from and all I remember is sitting underneath my Abuela’s chairs; canopied by wood I’d talk to los perros del pasaje. 2. Mis primos and I play futbol well into the night- sweat tipped noses, the mark of sangre serrana .They ask me all sorts of questions tienes una tele? Como se dice mierda en ingles? And I answer them knowing that’s all I can do to make them happy. 3. Mis Tias se veyen viejitas and it’s not just their age. It is becau...

All these borders and boundaries, Route 46, Interstate 80, the Passaic river, flat and dead on paper. I remember being raised in New Jersey, and my reasons for leaving: a girl. A 5 foot 2 inched mess. She was long dark hair, torn jean bottoms, baggy t-shirts, and a hurt that spelled out every woman adores a fascist down her left side. Memories remind me her body was like water in my hands and her curves came in waves. First her hips, then chest. She was Jersey, my gorgeous home, cinched in at...

I think I’ve found it in her body, the cure for your absence. She is boyish,clumsy-- you at fifteen. Wrists giving way to spills and those t-shirts you used to wear—baggy. Your curves were only meant for me, behind closed doors. She is addicted to music, its lingering shadow, and her bags are filled with books. But she is taller and doesn’t fit the hugs of my lap and chest the way you did, her hands don’t know me and the flashes of her camera se llevan mi alma. I miss the flicks of wrist, bur...

My mother smelled of vinegar and her hugs left the scent snug against the roof of my mouth. Her hair always pulled back, spotless faded dresses relaxed on her body, somos pobres no cochinas, Maria. Her hands were rough, full of cuts from knives tired of cutting cow’s hearts and on our way to school I could feel the cracks in her skin. Her life documented on the maps of her palms. I would feel her narratives pressed against me. We have always been at ends she is creviced, storied and I am form...