Construction

(August 31, 2010)

After lunch, Mami brought my favorite sippy cup

out to the war-zoned backyard construction site.

She sidestepped threaded rods and stumbled along

to the cinder blocks where Papi and I would drink.

He’d say there was no better way to quench thirst

than sipping some 80 proof Superior Bacardi—

the ritualistic elixir that fuels our island life,

ever-present since my preschool days. I won’t lie,

sometimes I long for that stagnant stench of beer

and spiced rum that would cool us down, our team.

I remember how I thought of myself as Papi’s son,

and how bitter Mami wanted a daughter with smooth hands.

Getting banished from my “unladylike” playground,

my helpless cries fell deaf on Papi’s unseeing eyes:

I learned that treason came in different shades

of pink pointe shoes and sequined leotards.

Photographs show my sticky hair slicked back in a bun,

and my feet bound in satin ribbons, but I know

blotches of blush can’t hide the handyman’s helper.

Who knows who I’d see if Papi weren’t blind.

Cheap

(September 30, 2010)

I’ve been thinking about those razors,

the blue generic ones I bought in Asheville.

They were labeled “For Men,”

but my legs craved the attention,

and they were on sale—the razors.

I wanted to wear that white skirt,

long enough to please your parents,

short enough for your hands to wander

while waiting for the breadsticks.

That’s the first time I’d shaved my legs

with the sole purpose of satisfying you,

not knowing all razors were for men.

I’ve been thinking about those razors—

the two dollars and ninety nine cents

that helped me become a woman—

as I lather up today and wonder if

the silkiness will ever be mine again.