Bruise Kiss
In pole fitness, you get bruises—known among practitioners as “pole kisses”— as a result of limb misdirection or fast, uncontrolled spinning around the pole, thus marking areas of the body such as inner thighs, calves, wrists, hips and feet.
When I sit on the toilet, my thighs,
purple and mold-green, file against
each other, mercilessly. My neck hairs
rise, dandelion-like, aware of her thighs:
pale, front-page, on the PM, yellow
newspaper, swollen by the headline,
“Matan a chavita y la tiran desnuda,”
and the price of 5 pesos, sold by tan guys
in neon vests on the avenue after crossing
the Puente Libre; on the newsstand at Circle K,
close to Vanidades, the chips and cacahuates.
Her pixelated skull makes her body her
face, so if you know her, you better
know her by heart, after all: panza llena,
corazón contento. This is the first picture todos
vemos de ella: her belly down, trasero al aire,
palms open and up against rocks and desert
weeds. I’d grabbed the paper by the ear, inked
my fingers, but I couldn’t buy it—only store
her in my cell phone where still, breathless
she waited for me—to remember her body
in my own skin: they’re not bruises, they’re pole
kisses, the instructor’s T-shirt says. My armpit
hugs the pole, the gap between my thigh fills
with metal as I lift my body upside down
and I hold a crucifix for ten seconds, unshaven
hairs pulled to the tune they’re not bruises, they’re
pole’s kiss, they’re bruises, they’re kiss—Bloody
hell, bloody—My thighs burn
when I stand from the toilet; I wince
when I put arnica on, but I’ll live.
These bruises, their impermanence
marked by a purple-turned-brown,
could be close to kisses in the grand
scheme of her—how she laid there, toditita,
for everyone to see, her lips and nose
a palimpsest of her face. “Fists erased it,”
the PM said. Her pain must’ve done something
other than cuss, bruise, kiss; her limbs
must’ve twisted, hit the pole with light speed, bent
on holding the dirt with her toes, rosary-like,
below her: Dios Madre Dios Madre Hormiga
Errante tickling my hand: These aren’t bruises. These
aren’t bruises. These aren’t bruises. These—
***
Hoe
I don’t choose I replace
you the hoe in this case
I’m stacking this money
believe you played yourself, honey.
—J, English 1st period
I chose hoe, it makes
sense in my ear—
what’s right about
writing that bad
girl good, anyways?
Do you want
me to go for ho,
instead? Look, a hoe
fits, you’re a tool
for lit guys, you dig
dicks, at them,
dirt itching your
teeth like a flesh-
eating plant, you
know, eating flies
and whatnot. Ho,
miss pushes, spell
it ho if you’re going
for it. I like whore
better, Destiny says,
and so it goes,
young and old
chicks, telling me
about her, writing
me because they (always)
know better. So:
Hoe, hoe, ho,
ho, whore, (bitch)
ho, I’m supposed
to be heartless,
feel good, slap
that other guy’s ass
when he scores
a field goal; fly
inside her dead
mouth, wings
like papery
gum; she did
give it good, though
I’ve only dreamt
about it: navel, ass,
all of her red
hair loving
me, my dick,
not hoeing around.
No matter, I’m loaded
now—don’t ask
how. I’m money,
can’t you smell
it? I have Jordan’s,
an iPhone 8, lost
puppy eyes girls
die for, I have
Beats, and a real
beat (actually)—
can’t you feel it?
Forget the hoe,
honey, just come
back to my lyrics
back to me (please?).
***
Monster
This is about you, India, woman that walks
behind a man who I can only call by his
last name. Remember that doctor, walking
on your dried country land, a landlord,
the highest caste in your casteless ladder,
telling stories about pregnancy and his love
for a certain kind of country dahl? I remember,
or maybe I dreamt about the band playing
all night before the wedding he invited us to,
my hands in henna, painted by the bride,
and the all-American Amanda who took it all
so well: the spice, the restrooms, the compulsory
squat, and my Mexican non-chola looks. We
both waltzed to the dangles encircling
your wrists, the Bollywood breaking
the small van’s speakers at 10 am; we
both knelt to your taste, Amanda turning
green, and I yellow: too much cumin,
mustard seed or chili. But we kept it up,
ten pounds heavier and lighter in the month
we stayed there, until we heard about
the monsters—women who killed
by scalpel or bread scraps, apparently fanged
and easily spotted. It broke our ear-
drums, when we met one, while the doctor
explained what the needle did, what
the vacuum slurped; and the monster,
oddly small, enamel chipped against
the bed rail, her soon-to-be-hollow
belly, roared due to the crunching
of pelvis muscle. All for naught. Judging
the brown-eyed monster afterwards, felt
wrong while Amanda and I took in the Chai’s
warmth as answer for all we thought, all we
thought we could fix in you, but we lost
all thought as the days went by, and monsters
and the living, beautiful fruit of their scalloped,
swollen belies (I imagine that’s what monsters
have) played, cooked, carried on. So, India,
this is for you—my dumb heart, at the mercy
of your monsterhood: (please)
Eat it. Throw it. Feed your child.
Born and raised in Ciudad Juárez, México, with a B.S. in Biology, a B.A. in Creative Writing, and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso, Alessandra Narváez-Varela is a creative writing lecturer at the same institution, and an English and Science high school tutor at Anthony, Texas. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Huizache, Acentos Review, Razor Literary Magazine and Duende. Lastly, an excerpt from one of her poems and a conversation about her experience as a bilingual poet was featured in the New York Times' Education Life section in November 2017; and Her, a chapbook that examines the symbiotic, often parasitic relationships between girls and women, was published by the Department of Hispanic Studies at the University of Houston on February 2018.