Just Blow It
My skin not being caramelo.
It is stained with spots
from that summer
I met you.
Blow
dried hair fell
on your lap
as I learned
how to
blow
from the front
seat
of your
chevy
camaro.
If my hair
had been thick
as china,
I would not
have had to
blow
dry
it.
Didn't finish college that year
so I don't have a degree
in rocket science
or something intellectual
like that.
Too busy
learning how
to blow.
You never played
the guitar.
Although I heard
you played the tuba
in senior year.
Who in god's name plays the tuba?
The tuba didn't help
with your blowing
I must admit.
I always wanted
to have a man
that played the guitar.
That knew how to move
his fingers,
an artist,
poet-type,
long haired
hippy-type,
taller than me,
the color
of Clint Eastwood
who
lived to play
the guitar
and write
songs
just for me,
something
that would be mine
alone.
I am not searching for a lullaby.
I am no longer
that awkward girl
who sat
underneath a tree
as it pealed paper
after sunset
finding shelter from papa
as he sat naked
in his favorite chair
while mother
and grandmother
coaxed him
into getting dressed
pleaded to
have him
come back
from his trip
as he sat there-
his legs crossed,
his right foot
twitching.
I walked past
them
after
one too many
Ay Pablitos.
Ay Pablito,
please get dressed
or we are going
to call la policia.
Ay Pablito
por favor
get dressed.
Ay Pablito,
please
don't do this.
Papa just sat
in his chair,
pointed fingers
at them.
Hs eyes
twirling
around,
slurred
to them,
get naked too.
Encuerate
ahora mismo,
he kept
repeating
to his mother,
to his wife.
I grabbed
one of his packs
of camels
sat underneath
the tree
as it peeled,
let the smoke
cough
up the words
I knew not
how to explain.
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Didi Menendez is the producer for several digital magazines. She is a single parent living in Miami, Florida.
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