La Pura Neta

How funny are my kids today like when they were toddlers on my cellphone videos their laughter high pitched here I sit remembering happiness I’m tired of only focusing on their tantrums they love me even when I’m mad all I want is to have conversations with them where they divulge their thoughts and feelings and I nod understanding them annoying, overwhelming, tantrums are a sign of needing to release thoughts that trigger feelings—two things that always go together— and when the thoughts that trigger the feelings are known we can discuss a way to work through them and then for the rest of the day (what a virtual day) I can remember that tantrum and think the kids aren’t so bratty after all where is Angelina Jolie shopping at Target with her kids and Jon Voight at home waiting for a call from CBS outside my window people walk around without facemasks wondering if they will be gawked by face-maskers Palmer Park is filled with runners, walkers, and people swinging on over-complicated sin

I was on a bus on my way to a new school, a high school on the south side of Chicago. I transferred to that school because I had moved into the area. The bus went south over a dark brick road bridge--it was dark because it was a gloomy day out--like the sky was heavy with rain. This new school was completely new--metal framework with floor-to-ceiling windows, open floors. The class body was mixed, with a majority being black and white students. I went to the second floor to wait in line at a check-in window. A very chatty boy behind me bumped into me and as I turned to look at him, we both felt an immediate attraction--we are both brown, we are both alternative. I'm reminded of my husband, I remembered I have a husband--maybe in that life or another--so I keep the boy in mind to feel less alone but ignore him as I wait in line. I'm outside in the vast woods that is the campus of the high school. There is a pond and there are green rolling hills of different sizes, all moving l

We’re like kids              running under shooting               red fire hydrants, us,      standing in transparent tanks & heavy shorts under our home’s gutter drain.  “My turn,”                I remember you say but I don’t move. Instead,                I close my eyes &                remember mom,      twirling in her long denim-blue dress              on our porch                             under the rain. Mom would take us                outside in the rain                to bathe together,      wrapped in baby-soap suds;                thunder & murky clouds                               no longer frightening. Under the gutter drain you nudge my nine-year-old waist with your seven-year-old hand. I open my eyes                & meet yours, my love for you overflowing. I moved aside                     for you under the gutter drain,   as mom moved           on our small back porch,                           making space to twirl with her. We never bathed in the

We fancied ourselves builders and decided to build a house in a one day. We collected planks of woods tossed in our alley, dug out left over arrow nails from the ground, and carried them together to the space beneath our Fletcher street porch. When we finished our south-facing wall one of us said Let’s make an experiment , and we both turned towards the blue plastic rain barrel that has always been underneath our porch. the blue plastic rain barrel filled with dads motor oil      :the environment our broken toys and those we found forgotten                   :the variables question:    if pushed down into the barrel which toys will drown                                     and which will be polished and playable again? We never finished building our porch house, We never finished the test, We left the blue barrel uncovered—                                                                                              twelve months                                                          

I didn't know of any Latina writers growing up. Of the Latino writers I knew of, I knew their long pieces of work, their novels. Novels is what real writers did. Short pieces come from poets. If you want to write short pieces, you should be a poet. This is what I had learned when I was a child. When I learned about The House on Mango, I wasn't taught about the book nor about the writer, but I saved her name: Sandra Cisneros, a published writer, a published Latina writer. When I finally has the chance to get the book, I flipped through it and was immediately heartbroken--It wasn't a novel. I was still under the impression that great writers are novelists and instead of seeing the praise given to the book as a sign of great writing, I took it as a mockery. I took it as if the literary world was mocking the ability of Latina writers, as if short stories were the only thing we could do. It's complicated now for me to talk about what I felt because in truth it had nothing

Dolores was her name. Spanish for pain (in the ass). She wasn't supposed to stay with us for long but since she was my roommate's coworker and my roommate being the kindest of us two, she ate Dolores' pain and offered her to crash at our studio apartment floor. And I literally mean the floor. We had no beds and thanks to Boner's genius idea of testing the durableness of our inflatable sofa with his ass-pocket full of explorer keys, we also had no sofa. We only had sleeping bags and layers of sabanas and blankets. The day--about the 85th day to be exact--of Dolores' stay--rent free-- I and my roommate agreed that Dolores either had to pay or had to go. When Dolores came that night, she heard our woes and agreed to pay. The next morning Dolores was gone. Along with all of our Tupperware. Every single expensive neon green, pink, and yellow Tupperware, proudly bought by my and my roommate's matriarchs; the Tupperware we took as mementos from home, as a jab to our