Grisel Acosta
Dr. Grisel Y. Acosta is a full professor at the City University of New York-BCC, the author of Things to Pack on the Way to Everywhere, a 2020 finalist for the Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize, and the editor of the Routledge anthology, Latina Outsiders Remaking Latina Identity. Select work is in Best American Poetry, The Baffler, The Acentos Review, and forthcoming in Speculative Fiction for Dreamers: A Latinx Anthology and The Future of Black: Afrofuturism, Black Comics, and Superhero Poetry. She is a Geraldine Dodge Foundation Poet, a Macondo Fellow, and the Creative Writing Editor of Chicana/Latina Studies Journal. Find Dr. Acosta at grito.org.
Pechichona
was what they called me
tú eres muy pechichona
but I ask, who doesn’t like the excessive
mollycoddling that becomes an
addiction to hugs, kisses, hand-holding,
giggling until the wee hours over
plates of flan or uneaten birthday cake
huddling in sleeping bags, sharing
secrets with the crickets and fireflies
guffawing over ancient horror
stories meant to anchor our feet away from water and
then jumping into moon water at midnight anyway
don’t we all love love?
would we prefer to sit, stiff-necked
and straight-backed, ready for a Puritanical
flogging of the spirit and heart, closed
mouth dry, might as well cut out the tongue
no words will be shared among lovers tonight
no, not me
soy pechichona siempre
always ready for skin
to touch, connect, share
the warmth that must flow for life
itself to birth new fires
…así que…
back when I was a girl we didn’t have what you call dating…así que…
if you wanted to see a boy, you had to have a chaperone…así que…
aveces they came to the window to talk…así que…everybody heard
even though you tried to whisper…así que…it was a public affair…así que…
mis tías always kept their eyes on me…así que…when your father
took interest, they were wary…así que…we mainly sat overlooking the sea
atop the mountain of the seminary where we met…así que…it was peaceful
with the breeze from the water…así que…we fell in love anyway…así que…
they had to accept it…así que…I mean, your father did try to ask for my hand
…así que…he went to my father, your grandfather, para pedir permiso…así que…
bueno, he said no, Papi’s color…así que…we got married anyway…así que…
el profesor Castellano gave me away…así que…pero mi mama went
…así que…she was the only one, and we had no money…así que…
I had to borrow the dress…así que…the veil and the flowers were borrowed,
too…así que…I left school to live with your father en Colombia…así que…
I didn’t see or speak to your grandfather for another 20 years…así que…I learned
strength, to be strong for my family…así que…when your father got sick
I knew I would take care of him, never leave his side…así que…don’t worry about me
…así que son las cosas for women like us, we keep going…así que…I know you
will keep going too, when you need to…así que…pero maybe you give a little less
…así que…maybe you give less and be more free and keep going for you…así que…
Time to Kill the Woman Over 40
she will already be dead, oftentimes
the mother who died giving
birth to a teen who keeps her
photo in a heart-shaped box under the bed
the wife who died of cancer
so we can see her husband
mourn for her for a tight 90 min.
the nana who left
an inheritance to her litigious offspring
a ghost who haunts new
homeowners attempting to soothe
her longing for a lost, unrequited love
but if she is alive
thriving at her upstart
excited about her new chapter at 50
mentoring the young with a kind heart and words
we will never know
because she must be killed
she will be blown to pieces in an explosion after
devoting herself to an English spy
she will have her neck broken, succumbing to her husband’s
mafia debts, and the actress who plays her will have her head
chopped off again by trolls and Twitter bots, asking why
such an old actress was fucking an actor of her same age onscreen
she will die at the hands of a serial killer and the audience
will groan at the sight of her cellulite on the autopsy table
she will die after convincing her husband to support
their son’s dream, and we will never learn
if she had a dream of her own
but what of the bitches who live?
we must hate them and wish them dead!
these harridans will strut around
their Spanx foundations and fitted suits
act like they own D.C., even though
[GASP!] they have no children
women over 40 without children
can’t lead!
these scumbags in Aerosoles
who are just waiting for their impending AARP
discounts like entitled primordial muck
will attempt to advise their trainees
only to be met with looks from younger
Google execs who say, “Why was this person even
cast in this story?”
if they are not dead, we must wish them dead
they will be evil stepmothers
lurking in bushes
waiting to trick naïve heiresses
stab them with a sword!
they will be insane zombies
kept in a sealed tank
waiting to chew your grey matter
off with their heads!
they will be pathetic, overtanned
oversexed swingers just
waiting to get their paws on your
under 30, still-lubricated skin
drown them in the sea!
they will be bookish nerds
planning an elaborate scheme to trap
you via a snowfall accident
imprisoning you in their home
pretending to mother you
kill them with your bare hands!
but mainly, they will just be
absent
gone
not written at all
dead before the story even starts
and let’s face it
who really misses something
or someone
they never knew at all?