# data[].attributes.body
Just turned 30 and enjoys eating hamburgers with a knife and a fork.

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There’s nothing like an Indiana rainstorm.

The way it cracks and muddles and whips,

Away the humid day.

Standing amidst the mess of a dirty bathroom,

Hoping that his breath would return to him,

For some strange reason he thought it worked that way.

Like in glossy magazine pages

Where pretty and dumb people look happy.

Forced smiles atop blemishes magnified by

Birthmarks, chunky neck bones, sunken eyelids,

Faulty organs,

Trapped within the confines of momentary lapses.

Lapses that equate to nothingness.

He copes by putting on his mother’s lip gloss.

Mouth slightly ajar. Rib cage protruding

Through silk material while,

Top lit lighting strikes his broad shoulders,

Shoulders that are too big,

for spaghetti strap dresses.

When he looks at himself,

He wishes he saw something sex-worthy.

Ah to be admired in that way.

Instead of living with a radioactive pit forming

Within his lower organs that

Host his radio silent synapses.

Only the oldies allowed on the radio.

Loretta Lynn, Nina Simone, James Brown.

The repetition of vowels and consonants in his favorite songs.

Weathered hands still turning the dials.

Same robe of skin just eroded with time.

These days the clock seems so much louder.

He lurks forward wishing his joints

Worked the way they used to.

But he will forever be stuck waiting on a rainstorm,

Some sort of violent rapture that may never come.

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You are the one who is locked away.

In some tall tower made of ivory like Rapunzel.

Sometimes they come and visit you all stoic and proud.

The cockiest enigma,

A fragile being no one can touch behind plexiglass.

You were the one with the broken taillight.

30 minutes from home,

Leaving yet another house party.

A living fossil made of stone.

Lover of whiskey and diet soda.

Always conscious of your caloric intake.

The one who loves the smell of wet concrete.

Rolling down the window to feel

The air caressing your face.

Or the smell of your friend's Swisher Sweets.

The repetition of the vowels and consonants

In your favorite song:

“And if you see my reflection in a snow cover hill”

But none of that matters anymore.

For you are the one who is locked away.

When I think of you I think of

Cherry red tomatoes,

The color of oxidized blood cells.

Bones protruding out of the meat

Like our grandmother’s crockpot

I think of crosses on the highway,

Your car wrapped around a tree,

Like kids playing Hide- and Go-Seek.

I think of all the other stupid people like you.

All of the selfish nobodies.

When I think of you I think about the ones who lived and the ones who died.

And how maybe they should trade places.

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There are times when I want to sob uncontrollably.

Like children hitting their shin bones at soccer practice.

Scream at the top of my lungs “I hate you”.

But “you” can be anything, fill in the blank.

There are times when I get angry

And want to put holes in things.

Put my elbows and knees through drywall,

Headbutt my door frame,

Break hearts in half like clogged arteries.

I want to cry the most,

When I get anxious and,

My body begins to lie to me.

Tell me I’m dying.

That no one loves me, that I would be better off silent.

Shattered nerves, carving grooves like oak trees,

Through my synapses.

Overwhelmed by fight or flight responses.

I used to be so loud but now,

I just sit and think of trouble sleeping.

Tricks to shut my brain off,

Or meds that rip my stomach,

Lining from its home

To drift off and dream.

Nana’s funeral 6 years ago,

The last time I cried.

Then ate plates of chicken and

Collard greens until I felt unwell.

I wish I could sob on command

and flush the cortisol from every nook

And cranny of my stubborn body.

The body that loves to lie to me,

The one that I should love.

The one I want to figure out how to love,

Because it’s my only home.

# data[].attributes.body
Lost, I think that’s what it’s called.

Like stolen goods atop

Kitchen tables. Malik’s Marlboro Reds

My broken-strapped Coach bag.

Or maribelle’s  xbox Controller.

Artifacts from a life somewhat lived.

We walk streets congested

like old sarcophaguses.

We dodge the cracks in sidewalks

Like frozen eggshells

Cream colored apartment

Walls painted over mold.

Dancing to ambient sounds and beats

At bus stops, waiting to be picked up.

That’s where I first saw you with headphones that

Matched your nail color            You are my favorite flavor of hardened exterior

Tough Calloused Hands

Soft Breasts

Rigid nipples

that poke through band tee shirts.                               Bangs hanging over eyelids

I wish I could make you grow softer. That trauma would

evaporate between my muscle bound forearms.

A sacred ritual in which our

Hip Bones rhythmically tap tap tap together

Before         we      eventually    hate

The taste of each other's tongues.

That’s how it always goes.

Until we are strangers with familiar faces.

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It’s your birthday at midnight.

Doctor says you’re too young

To be losing it.

“It’s like drowning” you say.

While holding me tighter

than ever before.

You tell me the random things

That come to mind,

When everything starts fading.

The smell of state fairs,

The face of a pretty boy,

The salmon color of your dentist’s office,

Old Fleetwood Mac songs,

The motionless twitching of sleepwalkers,

That stumble into your bed after dark.

Dropped into the ocean

Slowly drifting into an endless abyss,

The details losing their shape.

Time and space amalgamating together,

Momentarily disconsolate.

Before more memories wash to shore.

“Mama, do you remember our trip to New Mexico?”

But you’ll only remember New York.

“Mama, didn’t you want to name me Mariah?”

When you used to pray that I was a girl.

I want her to die already.

Before anymore of her slips away.

I just can’t remember anything before her.

But maybe she’s like rain,

Dropping into water.

The farther away, the smaller she gets.

Until one day she’s all gone.

# data[].attributes.body
"The Latin Deli: An Ars Poetica"

Judith Ortiz Cofer

Presiding over a formica counter,

plastic Mother and Child magnetized

to the top of an ancient register,

the heady mix of smells from the open bins

of dried codfish, the green plantains

hanging in stalks like votive offerings,

she is the Patroness of Exiles,

a woman of no-age who was never pretty,

who spends her days selling canned memories

while listening to the Puerto Ricans complain

that it would be cheaper to fly to San Juan

than to buy a pound of Bustelo coffee here,

and to Cubans perfecting their speech

of a "glorious return" to Havana--where no one

has been allowed to die and nothing to change until then;

to Mexicans who pass through, talking lyrically

of dólares to be made in El Norte--

all wanting the comfort

of spoken Spanish, to gaze upon the family portrait

of her plain wide face, her ample bosom

resting on her plump arms, her look of maternal interest

as they speak to her and each other

of their dreams and their disillusions--

how she smiles understanding,

when they walk down the narrow aisles of her store

reading the labels of packages aloud, as if

they were the names of lost lovers; Suspiros,

Merengues, the stale candy of everyone's childhood.

She spends her days

slicing jamón y queso and wrapping it in wax paper

tied with string: plain ham and cheese

that would cost less at the A&P, but it would not satisfy

the hunger of the fragile old man lost in the folds

of his winter coat, who brings her lists of items

that he reads to her like poetry, or the others,

whose needs she must divine, conjuring up products

from places that now exist only in their hearts--

closed ports she must trade with.

Ortiz Cofer, Judith. “The Latin Deli: An Ars Poetica.” The Norton Introduction to Literature, edited by Kelly J.

Mays, shorter 14th ed., W.W Norton, 2021.