Natalie Scenters-Zapico

id Two ids walk into one body & fight over whether to break melon on the kitchen counter & eat it by the fistful or to throw the melon out a shut window & watch it break on the pavement, stabbed by shards of glass. ego Sorry, for yelling through the speaker at the McDonald’s drive thru. Sorry, for not letting you through the door first. Sorry, I ate the dozen donuts in fifteen minutes over the sink. Sorry, I sound shrill, sound dumb, sound ditzy, sound spacey. Sorry, mom. I mean, mamá. 
I mean, miss. I mean, nevermind. superego Dear body: Cut the melon into slices with the sharpest knife you can find & enjoy the pain you are causing this melon. Stop saying you’re sorry, instead feel guilty for being shrill, being dumb, being ditzy, 
being spacey. Feel guilty because your mom is your mamá is your miss is the one who is guilty for giving you this body with two ids, 
& one ego, & one superego who hush-hushes you whole.

With statements by President Donald Trump I write my body, as border between We have some bad hombres here this rock & the absence of water. & we’re going to get them out. I cut myself with a scimitar, When Mexico sends its people, as political documentation. they’re not sending their best. How do you write about the violence They’re not sending you. of every man you’ve ever loved? They’re sending people Macho, you that have lots of problems breathe bright in the neocolony, & they’re bringing those problems to us a problem of Empire pulling They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing the capitalist threads of my border. crime. They’re rapists. Empire: you were so sterile Mexico’s court system [is]corrupt. & shiny with your dead man’s coins I want nothing to do with Mexico & castration, your white roses other than to build an impenetrable & that trash bag full of a Mexican WALL & stop them from ripping woman’s dark hair. Empire: you off U.S. I love the Mexican people, made us hungry for the glint but Mexico is not our friend. of machismo, the dim glare They’re killing us at the border of marianismo. Tonight on TV, & they’re killing us on jobs & trade. muted montages of the largest FIGHT! Happy #CincodeMayo! ICE raid in Texas. I drink The best taco bowls are made pink champagne in a hotel bar, in Trump Tower Grill. I love Hispanics! & correct the pronunciation of   my name.

I’ve stopped asking: ¿Why? I’ve let a man whistle from the table for more beer, & brought it to him with a smile. I’ve slapped a man & ran while he laughed — atrevida. I’ve had a miscarriage. I’ve let a man kiss me after an abortion & comforted his hot tears. I’ve done these things, while other girls work in maquilas piecing together Dell computer boards, while other girls work in brothels, & cake foundation across their bruised arms, while other girls ride the bus home alone at night, every night, while other girls are found wearing clothes that don’t belong to them, or no clothes at all. I’ve done all of this while other girls are found with puta written in blood across their broken bellies. My mother used to cover my eyes when we’d walk by girls working the corner, & say: See how lucky you are, not to have to work like they do? I have been muy puta, have been called puta. Yes, I’d say,very lucky.

I was so thirsty, you cracked an egg into my mouth. I ate it & thanked you. We were so rich then. I imagined the moon, a being I’d never seen, in every nail you’d use to tack the tarp over our heads. I confused hens clucking for the ringing of the phone you’d never let me answer. With a spatula to my ear, I’d pretend to be a woman on TV & say: ¿Bueno? Your anger was the gun you kept by the door, my fear, the knife I used to chop onions. One night you confused the sound of a snake rattling for rain. The snake opened its jaw & its fangs were the color of mud. You reached for my thighs just before you died & I couldn’t face you. Once you stopped breathing I rubbed your beard between my hands & played the most beautiful cumbia. We danced for the first time since our wedding.

My mother is dying of too much electricity on the brain, my father, a limp in his walk,& my macho lost his green card at a bus station. I want words split letter for letter to turn sound into wisdom on my losses. • My macho says:Your skin is the color of milk, you glow between sheets. ¿Who gives more light: me, or the luna lunera? Too much milk makes you sick — drink, drink, cascabelera. • I want to leave my hembra behind. ¿What are my options? She bleeds on the rug, births a litter, then hides limp bodies in kitchen cabinets. • I lied. My father is dying of too much electricity on the brain, my macho, a limp in his walk,& my mother lost her green card at a bus station. Who these losses happened to matter to no one but me. To others, my loss is only worth its sum parts. • I pour a shot to get the flies drunk. Watch their little legs stagger. I like the flies tipsy, like my macho likes me when I am glazed on the kitchen floor, begging him not to leave me. • Come kill me over the stove, under the running shower head, gravel my skin bloody. I am so afraid one night my macho will choke me to death, though I am not afraid of dying. • My macho says:Hembra, I imagine the woman I love when I’m with you, but you’re not that woman. I ask:Who is she? My macho says:Cállate, take off your dress. Each of   his fingers strokes death. I only want to die. So I die, una y otra vez.

He can’t stop putting the dead flowers, the deadhead nails, the deadweight sacks of flour in his mouth. He can’t stop writing about the mouth. The way he woke up to his mouth full of bees, their dead crunch still stinging his gums. He writes:There’s something beautiful in the way a mouth can be broken by saliva and cold air