La Dama (Tinderbox Poetry Journal)

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La Dama (“the lady”)

Puliendo el paso, por toda la calle real.

Polishing as she steps, all along the royal street.

Siempre esta en mi Corazon,

she says this to me.

Rolls te quiero mucho from her

tongue and I am broken.

I don’t know that she knows


I am broken.

That mi dama was polished

before I understood what polished


That I was dropped and swept up

by the busted broom

of mi familia.

That somewhere between the swig

of a Budweiser and the turn of the

tomo todo top, I was falling.

Vanishing from every shelf.

The white shelf.

The Mexican shelf.

The little girl shelf.

The innocent shelf.

The shelf of sexuality, I hadn’t mastered yet.

My pieces are everywhere.

A Kaleidoscope of misunderstood identity.

Hello, my name is not in a box.

Hello, my name is not chicana or guera, queer

or maricón. My name is not shelved. It’s in the dustpan of her hands and I’ve been molded. She whispers, te quiero mucho and I am broken. I, am broken. Hola, mi nombre es roto. Yo soy de rota.

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