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Hialeah
A platinum sun blocks the night.
“Disco Queen” in glitter
stretches tight across her tee.
Marisa bumps with a salsa swing
past Hialeah boys. “Oye como va.”
On the corner their slouches
radiate attitude, “We don’t need
no stinking badges.”
In the alley Ernesto hisses
“Mami qué rica estás” as she rubs
her breasts and legs against him.
firolo firolo bale fi ro lo ba le abo
He rubs his balls against a Santeria goat,
unzips for her genuflection.
Obatala controls her head.
Marisa shops the mall for platform shoes
to put her head above the rest.
Brothers, sisters, cousins
left behind call “Qué pasa USA.
We need green cards!”
A silver moon reclaims the night,
a maid’s uniform in virgin white
tossed by the mattress on the floor.
“Ride ‘em cowboy!” Ernesto slaps her ass
as she bounces on top to the answer
and call of the bata drums.
Next
poem by PJ Nights
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Contributors
PJ
Nights
T.
Birch
Jim
Tilley
Jaime
Page
Tasha
Klein
Coleen
Shin
Melodie
Miller
John
Eivaz
Jan
Iwaszkiewicz
Michael
Workman
Angela
Armitage
Nick
Sansone
Jenn
Bress
T.E.
Ballard
Diego Quiros
Edward
J. O'Brien
Collaboration
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