Duermes, Perlita, mientras escribo.

Duermo, Perlita, mientras lo lees.

v.

For whose pleasure

a string of saliva

from the lips of the lover

to the beloved’s sex.

In My Little Museum of Erotica

In my little museum

of erotica

I would place your feet.

I would place your feet

sandwiching

my feet.

Their softness.

Their heat.

And I would

place your arms

as you do mornings,

beneath my neck,

around my waist,

tugging me towards you,

my back to your chest.

This

well-beingness

I would set

on a Corinthian

column.

And those

who are aesthetes

of mornings and feet

would say, Ah!

Yes!

My Mother and Sex

Eight live births.

How many dead?

Who knew? Not us.

Her seven survivors.

When a bedroom

Scene flashed on TV

She’d shriek and

Scamper to her room,

As if she’d seen

A rat.

It made us laugh. What

Were we? Immaculate

Conceptions? Could be

Sex for her was dead.

A duty dreadful as cooking

For her famished army. Sad

To think this. Pure

Postulation from lack of

Conclusive conversation.

She never talked of sex.

Especially not with me.

She said

I put everything

In a book. Agreed.

But what was worse?

The truth,

Or my imagination?

What I know for sure:

Rapture for her,

A library record symphony.

Ecstasy, opera in the park.

Intimate pleasure,

Books.

Freire, Terkel, Chomsky.

Herculean. Brilliant. Men

Unlike the man who

Shared her bed, who

Favored Sábado Gigante

To Sebastião Salgado.

And yet Father spoiled her.

His Mexican empress.

Parícutin tempestuous.

Clueless to what she craved.

Her red flare

Sent up weekends: Help!

There’s no intelligent life here!

Evenings in the blue

Moonbeam of TV,

Father mesmerized by

Mexican, thick-thighed floozies—

Mother’s word, not mine—

Shaking their hoochie-coochies.

Father never

Drank, ran off, split flesh.

Brought home each faithful

Friday, a paycheck. Why

Would she complain?

She lived alone

In a house full of lives

By the time I knew her.

Snake bitter. Mingy.

Dead before being born.

A woman in formaldehyde.

Stepping on Shit

Sol says, Buena

fortuna is on its way.

Money’s sure

to arrive today

or next.

Pesos.

Or better yet,

dólares.

A sale

of her labor on canvas

thanks to the new pups

who have littered

the garden with luck.

Her house,

like mine,

the sum of a woman’s

life creating.

A flower in a white wimple

sprouted from the organ cacti

yesterday. Today

it furls itself

against the rain.

I’m a witness

in this house of invention.

I write. And watch

myself write.

Furl and unfurl myself

when I shut or open

my laptop.

Sol, success upon

success, good-looking kids,

sweet dollop of a grandchild,

a house ready for its close-up,

and stellar career,

complains.

Sol carries her

one regret like a

dark cloud on a stick—

she’s alone.

In the guest house,

I unpack my breasts

from their holsters.

Savor cotton against skin.

Read propped in bed