The Hunt
As a child a macho told me to close
my legs or he’d take me to a dark room
& make me cry. I closed
my legs. He asked me
to give him a kiss. I gave him
a kiss. I could not stop crying,
& he could not understand why.
::
My father was a ghost
in our house. He would not speak
for days, then drop a glass of water
on the kitchen floor. My mother
always swept up his shatters
& buried them in the yard.
::
At thirteen a macho put his hands
on my knees, then became tarantula,
travelled up my skirt. I didn’t scream
because I felt chosen. I felt lucky
he had chosen me to be hunted.
::
Machos hunt to watch women
in orgasm. Not because they like
to see women in pleasure,
but because they like to watch
women close to death.
::
Machos don’t know what it is
to give birth
to the dead. Machos know
pleasure through release. Machos
hunt to give pain & to witness
pleasure. To testify:
the resurrection of the body.
::
I will not apologize
for my desire to love a macho
who could crush my skull
with his bare fists.
::
I apologize to a daughter
for telling her to close her legs.
Machos are hunting, always hunting
to see women close to death.
::
I work two jobs & still come home
to an empty pantry. I am a bad woman
when I can’t feed hunger. My labor:
the taste of bleach after an alacrán stings my feet.
::
I write to machos & never
send my letters. In the age
of los Zetas, I am a lucky
hembra: I have a language
to write of the violence of machos.
::
I watch the azahars grow into lemons
machos pull too early from their branches.
I slice each lemon’s rind into translucent
sheets & place each little sun under
the tongue of my macho who eats & eats.
Natalie Scenters-Zapico
