ALMA, The new yorker

She calls you:

a cocksucker

a punk motherfucker

a fake-ass Dominican.

She claims:

you have a little penis

no penis

and worst of all that you like curried pussy.

(Which really is unfair, you try to say, since Laxmi is technically from Guyana, but Alma isn’t listening.)

Instead of lowering your head and copping to it like a man, you pick up the journal as one might hold a baby’s beshatted diaper, as one might pinch a recently be-nutted condom. You glance at the offending passages. Then you look at her and smile a smile your dissembling face will remember until the day you die. Baby, you say, baby, this is part of my novel.

This is how you lose her. ♦



My photo
Compilation of aesthetic manifestations beyond compliance, bring us emancipation.