your mother doesn’t quite understand
when a woman wants to disappear
she doesn’t want to be found
and your father probably gets it
but for his wife’s sake, stays silent
.
All the nights with your suegra. Sipping cafecito con demasiado azúcar. Trying to understand your mother. Siblings, not so much. “Those relationships sometimes end,” says your suegra, “but you should still pray for them to be happy. And don’t give up on your parents. Ever.”
.
stuff your mouth with cempasúchil
until stems poke out through your ears
roots burrow deep in your heart muscle
so your hijo always knows where to go home
forget lighting a candle—this is better
.
one of your sisters kind of gets it, but really
she’s only eighteen, divulging in the psychology
of your “missing in action but still here” dichotomy
what is the point of Thanksgiving and Christmas parties
when you have nothing to say?
.
Knead the masa in your manos like polymer clay. “Two things,” your suegra says, “never make tamales when you’re angry, and never take a shower while they cook. Tamales tienen los celos—they are very jealous. They won’t cook right if you don’t give them all your attention.” Absorb her recipe like plantas do agua, nodding, note-taking. Like your hijos’ identities depend on it.
.
you buy candles anyway
La Virgen y El Ángel de la Guarda
two dollar bills, half and dollar coins
a whole sleeve of shiny 2024 pennies
it wouldn’t do, to have an hijo pobrecito
.
what does it matter who understands
this is your baby, your body, your choice
to hell with the rest of it
willful-denial and ignorance and
los celos stronger than any tamales’
.
Porque tus suegros lloraron contigo. Porque tu hijo es su nieto. Porque la caja floreada que contiene la manta del bebé. Porque no hay preguntas ni silencios llenos de amor quebradizo. Estás segura. Estás segura.
.
la calavera negra, el arbolito de Navidad
los alebrijes conejos, y los cempasuchiles secos
tatuajes de su nombre y las fotos to prove
he exists, present tense
and to hell with the rest of it
Just Thoughts 