¿Que Que La Femme?

^{—after Teri Gender Bender, Skin from Skunk Anansie, Joan Jett, Brittany Howard, Teresa Sánchez in “Dos estaciones,” Grisel, my moms, my tías, and all the Jersey Girls from my high school who protected me from bullies (and roughed me up when I needed it, too)}

The women of this barrio, from their iron ribs they  
            belch volcanic, te lo digo. They laugh like factory 
drills as they rub their Peterbilt grill stomachs. 
            They flex their smokestack lungs 
and weave through turnpike traffic while applying 
            lipstick with an archer’s precision.

These chicas flex and boast, hike and hustle 
            and invent curse words so vulgar 
it would make a foreman blush. They make foremen  
            blush while lapping their brothers and husbands 
by downing rounds of shots. With a lower center 
            of gravity, they are the only ones to walk

away from their bar stools upright on two legs.  
            Las mujeres de esta tribu don gorgeous 
scars won from wrestling with a forklift. I once saw 
            one of these bold belles level an hombre in aisle 
three for trying to snatch produce from her cart.  
            She flattened that poor sod with plenty of time

left over to pick her kids up from school. For real,  
            the dauntless dames in this town wield lumberjack  
shoulders y linebacker waists with which they can 
            attract any stallion or femme they desire. They  
never wait to be flirted with; these lasses just barrel 
            right into whatever ignites them. Hell, they’ll court 

in sweaty work smocks. With ankles of oak and a bullet- 
            proof perm, these guerreras volunteer  
at the old folk’s home a few hours before they hit  
            the nightclub or a round of bingo, strike  
the lanes with a monogrammed Ebonite ball. 
            And don’t you dare try to shave any pins on them.

They’ve got a blade in their knee highs they  
            already christened when their beau 
decided he wanted to juggle two flames. 
            Oyeme! Vaqueras from my barrio can snap 
chicken necks five at a time with one hand while  
            stitching their daughter’s quinceañera dress

con la otra. Some ain’t never set foot in a damn 
            kitchen except to grab their fifth Corona 
of the night, because being a school principal 
            and steering a crosstown bus is not for the faint. 
The chicas patrolling my block leap from planes  
            and kickbox. They’ll fix lunch for the kids

if need be, but only if their grindcore band isn’t  
            headlining at the local pub that evening.  
They also play paintball, do the Hustle, pechichon 
            their puppies, raise their daughters to take  
no shit and their sons to cry and to fight  
            corrupt systems instead of the neighbors.

These women carry the tribe on their chromium backs,  
            and yes they’re going to bend your ear about it,  
and you’ll listen ’cause you know they got you when you  
            need roadside assistance. Pues, you can bet on  
being teased when they see you can’t change  
            your own flat. The mujeres of this parish bang

their heads to musicos with names like Sepultura   
            and Suicidal Tendencies as they mosh with boys  
half their age, leaving the pit with their mascara 
            still immaculate. Vale. Las mujeres de esta  
barrio don’t get shot by Mario Testino, are not offered  
            the blockbuster lead, pero seriously who’s got 

                                    time for that tontería anyway?