Dream of Despair
One hour to pack all that I own in five suitcases.
Their leather peels like sun-burned skin to the touch. I am
away from home and yet my clothes, my shoes,
my books, the items I carry for luck, the pictures
of people I love are all at my side. What is
there to keep? What to let go? I need to decide,
when I find my room. It’s on the ninth floor of this big
hotel, or is it a dorm? There’s only one old elevator
and it does not want to work. The stairs are blocked here
and there by mountains of toys and by chains. I bend and I crawl
and I jump, my legs spaghettis, my heart leaps
out of my throat. I’m finally here, but where’re the keys
to open the door? The clock will not stop its endless tick tock.
No way I can pack in less than an hour or carry five cases
alone down the stairs. Worst of all, I have
nowhere to go, no place to call home.
***
Living Is Urgent
The ICU bed can hardly contain the size
of your body, your swollen feet sticking out
of the covers looking for a place to feel free
of restraints, but you are constrained
by tubes and machines—an arterial line,
an IV and infusion pump, a temperature
probe, a pulse oximeter, an inflatable
cuff, a nasal cannula, a heart monitor.
You feel like a string puppet with a pumping
heart who now wishes yesterday’s tomorrow
had been yesterday’s today, when you were
still autonomous and could walk the dogs,
swim a few laps, read with your son, give
your wife a cuddle on the sofa. What could
wait yesterday has become urgent today.
Today, large clots block the blood flow to your lungs.
No catheter inserted through your groin can hurt
as much as the thought that it could be too late.
***
On Why a Woman Cheats
Maybe she feels trapped, a solitary gerbil living
in a wire cage, with a bed of straw she can nibble at
until it’s gone, and a spinning wheel that goes
nowhere, where her feet get caught in the fast
spinning spokes and break.
Maybe she meets someone who opens the cage door
and gives her the key, who lets her knit her own bed,
who plays with her on the wheel and shows her how
to get her feet unstuck so that she can leave at her wish.
Maybe that’s why she chooses to stay,
no more a gerbil, captive in a cage.
***
No Liberty or Justice for All
“Justice will not be served until those
who are unaffected are as outraged
as those who are”
–Benjamin Franklin
“Mami, what is justice?” You ask me on our
drive to school, your ocean-blue eyes fixed
on Benjamin Franklin’s quote on my shirt.
“Imagine I’m Justice and have to decide every
night who, between you and your friend Nate,
behaved better during the day. Imagine I have
a magic measuring cup where you can pour
what you didn’t do right: you blamed Chiqui’s
tail for the broken glass, you didn’t clean up
your toys when I asked you to; you forgot to
brush your teeth after lunch. At the end of the
day, your cup is full while Nate’s is empty, so
I will have to praise his behavior and correct
yours, although you are my son, not him. Being
Justice, I must do what is right.” You seem
content with my answer, unaware that I’ve told
you a lie. I don’t believe there is justice. I don’t
believe that the law is impartial, or that bias does
not exist. And yet, am I wrong if I want to protect
you from the ugliness of the world as long as I
can? Who would want to grow up in a world where
a woman is raped by five men taking turns, then
claim that she asked for it by the way she was
dressed? Where teenage boys are arrested, coerced
to confess to a crime that they didn’t commit and
even sent to death row? Where a business can turn
away a customer, fire an employee, for being gay
or transgender? Where a person can be pulled over for
doing nothing wrong, to be later asked to explain how
a forty-year-old black man would not have a rap sheet?
I stand in your school drop-off line, surrounded
by kids ages four to twelve—white, black, Asian,
Hispanic, Native American—all facing the American
flag, right hands over their hearts, reciting the Pledge
of Allegiance: “One nation under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.” My throat feels full
and tight. My lips start to quiver.
As I drive away, tears
stream down my face.
***
A Practical English Lesson for Spanish Speakers
Sit down. Let me tell you something:
In a party full of strangers, when asked
how you’re doing, don’t say you are
constipated, or call the boyfriend of the girl
you’ve just met boring. Remember,
ser and estar don’t exist in English,
but the boyfriend doesn’t know and
you will become embarrassed.
On your sixth date with Robert, your American
crush, don’t ask him if he has preservatives when
he takes you to his room after a slow mating dance.
He will think you’re weird and you’ll think he’s
not the responsible man that you thought he was.
Years later when you are married—with a boy
you are potty training—and go to the doctor’s
for a sinus infection, don’t tell him you are using
the Neti potty. The smile on his face will make
you blush and you’ll want to run as fast as you can.
Last but not less important, watch your pronunciation:
when you want to invite your friend Pete to go to the beach,
ask your son to wash his bed sheets, or beg
your husband to let you focus, make sure you
say the words right. Otherwise, Pete will think
you are shameless—
does she want a ménage à trois?
Your son will refuse his task—
who pooped on my bed?
Your husband won’t let you focus—
would I be allowed to watch?
*****
Mari-Carmen Marin’s work has appeared in several places, including, Wordriver Literary Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Dash Literary Journal, Months to Years, The Awakenings Review, Lucky Jefferson, San Fedele Press, Willowdown Books, The Comstock Review, The Green Light Literary Journal, Mothers Always Write, Breath & Shadow, The Ekphrastic Review, Poets’ Choice, iō Literary Journal, Kaleidoscope, Toho Journal Online, Poetica Review. Sepia Journal.