by Hia Chakraborty
You wandered the foothills of your prime and
prufrocked across the wasteland with your hair slicked
back like ravines and the Dominican cats would 
call you from their stoops like hola, mami and 
you seemed to yourself a terror so you looked away and
somewhere uptown,
all the girls with names like Garcia
buy themselves flowers from the bodegas and
all the brown boys with red lollipops between white teeth are
sluts for erasing their own histories and 
Diddy Bop begging them to 
                                                                                   run, run, run
when the pigs cruise by
to remind them that their skin is a dangerous thing and the word 
is titanic in their mouths, sirens
swelling as loud as monsoon rain and the 
that follows.