Vamos. Enough. The red sauce of the sun is hotting up the sky as dawn fizzles out like my baby-making eggs. Snow on the zig zagged roads, gray gutters, vaya con whoever's in that Rolls, silver-white like El Norte touching down where the blue wind blows. Verdad? What's in my futuro? Get me a reader of palms. "Your mound's in Venus," she says. "Planet?" I ask. "Plan what? Ees no problem I see three kids." Listen, my eggs are no-shows and I'm not even Latina. That "ez" at the end of my "In" name comes from my padre's paramour in the Sunshine State. Randyman. Long ago. Aye. Call me Milagros. I got a lucky vida. Well, maybe. Could be. Nobody's saying what it's like to sleep under stones. Where have they been. the ones who made me? Donde estan? Nice to see you, Mother Snow, tending to the rain. Copyright © Colette Inez. |