| Puerto Rican
poet and translator Ina Cumpiano is a graduate of the Johns Hopkins
Writing Seminars, the Iowa Writers Workshop and the University of
California. She won the Jaime Suárez/Editores Salvadoreños
Poetry award and the New Millennium Writings Award. |
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Mano, antes de ayer or
maybe
yesterday Papi called you
machorro not macho but
that
other thing
thats worse for him, worse even than
sinvergüenza or maricón, he said you were shooting
blanks, you,
the
last of the line,
since cousin Febo had only girls
and my kids dont have el nombre
and he doesnt like them
that
much anyhow.
Se suponía youd have a houseful
of mocosos always fastidiando underfoot, all machitos
in his mind, running around
with
their cositas
dangling, fleshy, pink beneath their oversize
undershirts, bien monos and
ready to do it
to
all the nenas
whose tiny purple-blossom coños waited
just for them.
Me he called
a
corteja
when I refused to live alone how do you
tell los vecinos it didnt matter
que ya estaba vieja,
or
that at my age
my new old man makes me coffee in the morning
and rubs my back at night , no me chaves, I said,
but por dentro, duele, duele
and
I dont forget
Ricardo, his father, did it to las sirvientas
in the cane fields and to la otra
in the back shack he kept her in;
he
kept busy
when Doña Inez was indisposed. He was clearly
no machorro. She turned a blind eye
but saw him clearly with the other one:
pendejo,
she muttered, pendejo.
© 2000 Ina
Cumpiano
and
El Andar Magazine
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