Abecedarian in which la Chillona uses her words
by Elena Ramirez-Gorski
Abuelo asks me whenever I cry are you a man or a mouse
but Abuela knows I am neither I am mother of everything of each
caterpillar collected in paper cup of all the baby
dandelion heads popped prematurely from
each milky blooded stem-neck I’ll
funeral each and every one of them
give a sandbox burial and ten
Hail Marys at least I’ll pray for every
innocent and voiceless soft-souled thing
just like Abuela and her tortillas swaddled in
kitchen towels until they taste
like lavender baby wash just like each storybook
mouse and bunny I kiss goodnight on their watercolor
noses just like all the pinto beans I sort
one by one on the plastic-lined kitchen table making a
pile for the ugly ones the shriveled ones even my
querido dirtclumps and pebbles are special and deserving and
reserved for loteria I am the mother of the whole card (la
Sirena el Soldado la Dama el Borracho) and love
them all the same (even if el Valiente doesn’t call home so much) and
unconditionally they’re allowed to cry I’d never force them to raise their
voice over the music stand in front of the whole party apologize
when one of their caterpillars falls from cup and bloodbursts beneath Tía
Ximena’s heel (who doesn’t apologize, never loved that caterpillar, only cries over its mess)
yes I always answer man but want to be the mouse (paper soft sipping tea) or muñeca or her
zapatitos or bottle or its milk disappearing when tilted into dollmouth thank god it
disappears
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