In the Culture of Now

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.