you lie to yourself // i learn late to work inside the body
slow madness // in the end you mend // the broken parts

i lie

you die working // the body gave up // and in my final act
// i try to mend // the broken pieces

the mirror breaks

you walk the same dirty sidewalks
before you were homeless and exposed,
you were a small brown sugar-skin doll,
held by men who wanted. adored.

mother, when i can’t see your face,
my eyes turn into water.

many men stripped you naked.
you worked for white america cada día.
cansada. te cansas. there was no other way to live.

work
                    toil
die

you’re on the clock.—
rum on breath, men with beer
on their tongues and bellies,
the bruises on your body are darkening.
you called it love.

in the dark you wonder
if this was it.

you called it love.

can you see the faces shifting?
the ones who left us
the ones who never return by choice
and we let them

you told me you love me
you always do when i forget you

and all i could answer was an 		

( “i” )

never 
i love you
good morning
good night

mami, i am sorry.
but how does love grow
beneath a scornful eye?

you are a woman held by paper-mâché,
and sob in the dark over dreams 
unfinished, missed payments,
quid pro quo sex so we won’t sleep outside

debts stacked like prayer cards
you are unfinished woman

it hurts to be poor

it hurts to be seen only when used

what is a body exhausted into survival

it was never your fault.
you were the first of a generation.
mami, i am sorry.

now you sleep entire saturdays,
swallow pills hoping sleep will be enough
to quiet
the tremor taking over your ghost body.
 
padre celestial, you whisper
as you kiss me goodnight.