per request:
today, a man embarrassed himself: why don’t you write a poem about it? he said, voice interrupted by guffaws as i walked by, tired of being caught between humans, uninspired by a conversation about the fda and medical technology. the second time he said you can write a poem about that! i clapped back: at least poetry doesn’t limit you to one life path. his face reddened and smile disappeared. all eyes on him, he stood, moved across the room, said no more. my group continued our conversation in peace. an observation: white men don’t like being talked back to by young women. not all men but especially the ones who talk about how they peaked in college (or worse, high school). how low does your self-esteem have to be to belittle a twenty-four-year-old stranger’s dreams… i can’t imagine how his seventeen-year-old daughter feels. an eye roll and here. here’s my poem about it.
*
photograph of a family at niagara falls, 2005
after José Edmundo Ocampo Reyes
at a tire shop on our way out of cleveland, my sister hung
her bubblegum puffer on the inside of a bathroom
door. in the car, we sang usher at the top of our lungs
while crossing state lines on the I-90. mid-verse, my sister shouted:
STOP THE CAR. STOP THE CAR. STOP THE CAR!
my father bore his eyes into the back seat from the rectangular
mirror between him and my mother. CE-I?
leaves tumbled over our front window and disappeared
past the vehicles behind. my sister’s eyes dripped crystals,
saline reddening each cheek’s pore: UNDE MI-E GEACA!?
cars from pennsylvania, indiana, even new york
passed our dodge as my mother spoke honey
words to my sister: respiră adânc, mami...
deep breaths my little one… between these,
my mother’s voice hardened as she directed
my father to another lane switch, eyes
flitting between the interstate maps on her knees
and her children behind. in romania, parents
demonstrate love through mirror endearment:
cool by nature, mothers call their children mami to
soothe. english does not borrow this eastern european
comfort term. se întâmplă. more pennsylvania plates
sandwiched us in before thinning out at the border. leaves
tumbled vigorously, and radio static curved in
and out. i poked my sister until her blemishes
turned to chuckles. clouds morphed across
the autumn canvas while we edged our car
between north dakota and maine. if you look
closely at this photo in our 2000s vacation album,
you’ll see my sister swim inside my mother’s bright red
zip-up, her head warmed by an ice blue hat
that blends into the churning falls.
