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Budweiser Clitorectomy
Jeronimo Saldena

She had been spread and torn
with the intensity of a Long Island construction worker
jack hammering the final bits of residential ghetto sidewalk
into a future freeway meant to shorten the SUV’s & Lexus’ commute
from the city to the ‘burbs by 5 T-Mobile minutes,
drawing beads of sweat from the menacing statue of liberty tattoo,
graced with the red, white, and blue “mess with the best, die like the rest” inscription
that ran the length of his malignant spine, crippled crooked from
decades of union overtime.

The Spanish speaking clods of adobe earth
who had recently swam the Rio Grande
sat surreal atop white orderly uniforms,
like Dali snowmen, brushed into irony
among the suffocated humidity of a Louisiana summer,
sneered “Puta”
as the two murky blue glaucoma eyes
baseball and apple pied their way down
the quivering brown,
stethoscope-ing the left itty-bitty mound
then down the emaciated belly to
in between trembling stubbly thighs,
where a botched clitorectomy spoke in scents,
Budweiser, oral anesthetic
fresh from the makeshift operating room
of a coyotes 1979 dodge rust bucket,
seats missing since ’84 when selling and raping them
began to pay more
than sneaking one across.

“Does anyone know what happened to this Maria?”
Her name was Coyolxauhqi, daughter of Coatlicue.
“I don’t think she speaks English. Why don’t you
get that new orderly Malinche to ask her in Mexican?”
She was indigena and spoke Nahuatl.

There were slivers of brown glass embedded and tangled amongst the chaos of her
Ravaged virginity, resembling the thick jungles of her native Chiapas,
once thriving harmoniously in sync with each season
only to be seized by Imperialist interest who slashed & burned herfor the sake of
civilized Christian progress: churches, parochial schools, circumstantial circumcisions, maquiladoras, Wal-Mart, Nike town and a Budweiser brewery.

 

 

 

 

 
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