Skip to main content

May 5th: after a conversation last night

...I thought they were pimples. I layed on my stomach, on top of a bed cover with a floral duvet. the unseen doctor began to exam my back. Hmm, he said. This one here is a worm. I felt him tugging, I felt discomfort, it felt small but long. i felt the snap when the worm was detached from my skin. the doctor placed it on the bed and I could see a thin white string but as I tried to touch it with my pointing finger, it moved and wriggled around. the doctor pulled out another but this one was shorter. the third was tinier. just as I was pushing off the bed, because the exam was done, my daughter crawled across the bed, her feet too close to the area where the worms were placed. immediately, I searched for the long worm. I picked it up with a tweezer and as it got to eye level, it tried to get in my mouth. I closed my lips immediately and blocked it. my husband than disposed of it. the second worm was tossed but the tiniest one was not found. I feared it attached itself to my daughter. I felt small relief that she was wearing a pair of dark colored socks that could protect her feet.  if it did attach itself, it would be spotted.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

dechavetado

adj. amer. Chiflado, que ha perdido la chaveta: está deschavetado por ella. per http://www.wordreference.com/definicion/deschavetado Y yo, estoy deschavetada por la camara, el imagen, spanglish, dreams, letras and memori-a.
Post a Comment
Read more

Carnales (after Terrance Hayes)

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,    ...
Post a Comment
Read more

House/Home

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 ...
Post a Comment
Read more