“Who won?” Mom texted.
Mexico was playing Brazil
In the World Cup’s last of 16.
I didn’t have the heart to reply.
Why didn’t she take his hand,
The guy from São Paulo
She often spoke about—
As we commiserated with Cinderella on VHS
In our one-bedroom apartment,
Too little even for two,
Waiting, hungry, sleepy,
Aged 28, 6, 7, and 9 at 10:36pm,
For the man she married
To finally become Prince Charming—
The one whom she told
She didn’t like to dance
Even though she wanted to kiss him
And described his nose, jaw, and eyebrows
So well that my eyes grew misty
Breathing the spiced rum in his breath,
Smelling the musk beating on his chest?
That night, she tapped her feet
Alone at the party,
And under her silk sheets
Wiggling her toes warm.
Instead, she fell for a man
From her native Mexico—
His brown skin, thin body,
And honeyed-milk promises—
Before he made it a habit of
Stealing her car
And leaving their kids at school
Until the janitors gave them quarters
To buy chips and soda
And kicked them out
Into the street to eat on the sidewalk;
The curb as their table.
Again, the text’s insisting buzz
To let her down by proxy,
“Brazil,” I replied.
A phantom ellipsis palpitated incessantly
For five minutes.
I checked back after 45:
She hadn’t replied.
Copyright © 2018 by Jose Oseguera.
