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Issue 19, Poesía | September 2016

     

My Lineage Is Pure, As Delicate as Quebracho Wood

I come from a long line of cheap lipstick
smeared over cantina walls.

When the neighbors aren’t pointing
and whispering “puta”
they are whispering “bruja”
or "bitch."

When the neighbors aren’t pointing
and whispering “puta”
surely my mother is.

Binding my sexuality in unshaven
legs, a unibrow, sweat suits, bowl
haircuts.

But mother, you cannot protect me
from the long line of whores before me.

The neighbors hate us, we are tainted.
They whisper, “mijo, no la toques.
Ya la chupo el diablo.”
My Lineage Is Pure, As Delicate as Quebracho Wood