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The Superhero Who Gave Up
Some time in the year ‘96
My father was
what Superman
would have been,
if he were possessed
by Bacardi and Jim Beam
on the weekends.
The man swept me
off of my feet—
no date, cape, and no catch phrase.
Admittedly,
my father was a beautiful man.
Still is.
He’s not a 6-foot tall guy,
but he’s got a grin
that made my teachers and babysitters
unveil their inner sex goddesses.
Perfect brown lips
and a pair of warm, almond shaped eyes.
Even on his worst days,
the guy is Denzel Washington.
Always immaculately dressed,
smelling like he had millions,
hair and beard trimmed to perfection.
A smooth talker.
Before you know it,
you’ve found yourself
knee-deep in a pile of
horseshit—
Involved in some illegal get-rich-quick pyramid.
And so his shaking,
rough, brown hands
were tucked under my pits.
He whirled me
around the room
like a rag doll.
Doing this
dangerous, dizzying dance
in the middle of our living room.
The bastard tripped over my Polly Pockets, cassettes, blankets, stuffed animals
and knocked over my sippy cup.
The only light now
was the Technicolor glow
from the TV below us.
It made me feel sick.
My mother
fluttered about the room
like a nervous little moth.
She pleaded in a low
and trembling voice,
holding her arms out in front of her
as though ready to catch
one of her glass unicorns
from falling off the edge of
the table.
You put her down, Rodolfo.
You put her down now! Or so help me God—
He breathed
into my face—
my eyes stinging
as my fingernails
buried into his black
leather jacket—clinging onto him
for dear life.
Who do you love more?
He drawled, demanded.
His tongue thick and heavy
with Bacardi—
eyes glistening.
Me or mommy?
Some time in the year ‘99
My father clambered
out of his friend’s trailer
and swung around a Corona
in his fist.
His friend’s wife’s name
was Margarita, and apparently
she made killer Margaritas.
She had a clumsy walk,
loose at the knees,
and was followed by a cloud of smoke.
She half jokingly
offered me a Margarita.
I was six.
She beckoned me
over, puffing on a
Virginia Slim balanced between
her bony fingers.
Margarita pulled around
at her purple pleather skirt
and licked her pursed pink lips
at my father.
I didn’t like Margarita
because I could see
her nipples through her tank top.
And she was always
running her desiccated hands
through her frazzled,
bleach blonde head
and looking around at her sides
all of the time.
I didn’t think I would actually
like Margaritas either.
My mother always pulled me
close to her breast
whenever Margarita was near.
My father watched me carefully,
tossed his head back,
and guffawed.
Before we left,
Margarita winked
one wrinkled eye at me
and planted a wet kiss
on my temple.
I couldn’t wait
to get into the car
and wipe off her saliva
and my lip-stick stained
face with my sleeve.
On the way home,
my mother drove,
and she kept slapping
my father’s hands away from her.
As I gazed
out of the window
and the sky erupted
into smoke and fiery rainbows
I suddenly remembered
it was the Fourth of July.
Some time in 2000
In the wake of my nightmare
he towered over my bed.
His shaky, brown hands—all warm.
And like Superman,
he whisked me off
into the darkness of the kitchen—
placing me up onto the counter.
Half of the floor bathed in the moonlight,
and the churn in my stomach
vanished as the hum
of the microwave lulled me.
As did the sugary, creamy texture that touched my lips—milk from a Minnie Mouse mug.
I curled into his chest.
The stubble on his chin
felt like grains of sand
through my fingers.
And grazed against my shoulder
in an itchy, familiar way.
I was comfortable in his grip
just this way.
Christmas Eve, 2004
My father crawled
up the stairs from our
basement
on his hands and knees.
I stared down at him—
tempted to kick his teeth
in.
He demanded
that I shut up
and get the karaoke machine.
I wanna sing! We should sing!
So I shut up,
and got the karaoke machine.
I spent hour
after hour
after
hour
going up and down the steps
getting him his beer.
Another beer. Another shot. One more.
He jabbed his knuckles fiercely
into his chest and then
he bellowed,
I am the monster of all aliens!
Finally, he crawled
into the upstairs bathroom,
locked himself in,
and slumped into the tub—his heels slipping and sliding.
My mother’s fists
came down hard
at the bathroom door.
You’ll drown in there, and I’ll let you!
Rodolfo, open up!
Later that night,
my mother’s arthritic fingers
fumbled with fat crocheting needles.
Snot and tears dribbled
from her face—
soaking the yarn of a scarf
she was making for me.
Meanwhile, my father
shrank into the basement again
—he drank until
he didn’t know
or care who the hell
we were anymore,
and then beat time
on the skin of his congas.
I hated him
for trying to pick us off
Mom and me like old scabs.
In the mornings,
the stench of alcohol
would seep from his pores
until the bedroom was unbearable.
Among the many insults
he showered us with,
he spat at us quite often,
I’m tired of living a mediocre life,
and then give a long sigh.
Fourth of July, 2010
My mother wore
a tight smile, and she
downed a cranberry vodka
like a champ, but grimacing.
She sat with wives
of machistas.
Wives who linked arms,
grinned and took selfies together,
but sized each other up
like pissed off cats.
At their table,
it was like watching
a high school clique.
For the first time,
my mother joined the women
in a chorus of laughter at jokes
she didn’t quite catch—
all for my dad.
My father’s best friend, Pagan,
stumbled over his feet
around the pool table
in the center of the basement.
My head swam around
beer bellies,
cologne,
Cuban cigars,
and open-toed sandals.
Pagan pulled me in
by my waist
and twirled with me.
Our foreheads almost touched.
His was all shiny,
so I leaned back.
He had a small,
gold hoop earring
in his left ear.
His breath was warm
on my face,
my breasts pressed against his chest.
His shirt was damp
with sweat and I could feel
his boner probing my thigh.
These people’s housedog looks like a fucking sheep!
Pagan howled.
He shoved a pool stick
at me and demanded softly,
Play a little pool with us, mama.
Why are you acting shy?
His hazel eyes flashed at me,
hungry and curious.
I wriggled out of his arms,
shrugging away from him violently
and tossed the pool stick back at him,
glaring.
My chest tightened,
fighting back tears that
threatened at my lashes.
I sat on a stool
and stared down at the beer
sticking in between my toes.
My father swayed,
balancing himself
on a pool stick
and watched us carefully
beneath his brow
with a cigar
sticking out between his lips.
I thought I saw him smirking.
