Pssst!
Mijita . . .
Niña, oye niña
Hey— little girl . . .

When my mother drags me
by the hand through El Centro,
her heels clomping the concrete

as she weaves to avoid
water dripping off the
air conditioners from
the buildings above,

I do as she does.

I squeeze her hand,
mimic her glazed-over eye
pretending not to hear
not to notice,
lips together, teeth apart
is rule number one,
we never talk about.

Some men give up easily,
but others persist.
At 12 I discover
my look of disgust
is received
as encouragement.

Without words, we advance
through the heat. Even the men
pissing in the corners
of buildings in the bright
downtown daylight
bombard us with wet
kissing sounds

Cochinos.
Their eyes
cling to us
like sweat.

My mother gives no quarter,
wears the armor of silence and stone.
I fall in step with her stride.

We skirt the buildings, lock and load
sending bullets of indifference
spiraling through the air

Stoic on the surface.
Trigger-happy inside.