Ysabel Gonzalez

You could have liked me.

Bathed in my rage

like chicken splashed in grease.

Maybe I’m that chunk of skin

scraped from your thigh

before they put you in,

dirt deep.

Or would my cousins

have shined, dynamite sparkling

between your caramel fingers

while I, the cigarette,

propelled from your mouth

to a grinding shoe?

Could you?

Between your cowboy swagger,

your peacocked prune,

and grandfatherly wad of greenbacks

flashed before mirrored eyes.

Not until I skirted across

a living room like a ring,

be the first to don

the champ belt hanging

from my shoulder like a shawl —

because after all, I’m still a lady.

After my triumph, you would have easily seen

your win.

Maybe you could have.

Because your groan

gets caught in my throat

and when I shut my eyes

I can see through yours —

about the author