Here's the www.textsfromlastnight.com poem of the week.
Accidentally found myself talking about race and culture in this one. Being biracial, it's always a tough feeling. Not being white or brown enough for some. Getting odd looks from parents of girlfriends and wearing non-threatening sweaters to overcompensate for the tension. Being asked, "Where are you from?" and already having prepared a stock answer ahead of time which suits your taste and sensibilities.
Here we go!
(617):
i would really appreciate it if you would stop texting my girlfriend.(508):
Ever seen a bunch of crabs, live ones,
Layered deep in a bucket?
Soon as one tries to get loose, pry itself free,
The others, they pull him back, stuff him down.
That’s you. You passive-aggressive, tweed-suited,
Crossword-puzzle-in-ink-dabbling, condescending dick.
I ain’t gonna step away from a chance with Gloria.
We go back. You’re
just the seasonal flavor.
Once you see the real stories, the marrow behind
Those gray, regal eyes, once you catch her abuelita’s
Warrior voice, locked behind the curses she taught her,
The words she don’t use much no more, but still
That power, it’s quiet and shored up along
Her spine, supplicates at her breasts - once you witness the fire,
you'll run, like a pinche coward. She is a machine
Of death and prophesy, entiendes? La palabra asesino.
What? You don’t - you
don’t -
Of course. You’re
pocho. I get it. Watered down.
Cafe con leche turned americano..
No longer Guillermo, but Bill. You ever make babies
With Gloria, probably give them stupid cookie-cutter
Wonder Bread names like Harper or Kaiden.
And like that, all the past, the fragile significance, it’s
gone.
Know this: that woman, that wonderful, terrifying
Creature, bears a scar, size of a hammer,
Down the back of her thigh. Thin crime of skin.
She’ll never tell you the tale.
I know what happened.
That is love. Shared Sorrow. That’s what we got.
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