Mamasota

Poem 1

When my Madre left the microscopic town of Jojutla

The Pemex station was on the verge of exploding

and her Mama posed like a fashion doll in a mirror by the window

chatting with herself.

My Madre plucks her eyebrows three times a day

disinfects her face four

curses young hussies at least five

and reminds me of her big mistake once, just before bed.

She talks to pink boys on a red phone

shaped like a high heel shoe

asks them if they like her, “really” like her

invites them over to tuck her in.

My Mama holds her belly in when she talks to strangers

her lined cheeks expand and she hisses through glossed lips

about the trouble with silicone princesses

and tarts and the man.

She forgives herself constantly

“I’m only human dear”

And answers her own inquiries

“Arent I a cutie? I sure am.”

In the middle of drool producing sleep, safely away from pink flamingoville

I sometimes taste her mid-afternoon breakfasts

sugar coated, black orange peels from France

Strawberry Quik covered “wonder” bread.

My Mama never cries in front of company

she waits for her tight skinned friends to leave the ginger house

to run down into her unfinished basement

to sit and stroke the edges of her blonde wig

and let hard tears fall unto the box of memories her mama left her.

Jessica Priego