Issue VI, 2008

Texas A&M International University

Reflections Editors: Gladys Benavides Jonathan Martinez

Selection Committee: Antonio J. Casarez Alicia Coronado Monica L. Luna Erica V. Matos

Contact: TAMIU Writing Center, BFC203 5201 University Blvd. Laredo, TX 78041 (956) 326-2883

Director: Kimberly R. Thomas

Associate Director: Destine Holmgreen

Cover Art: Michel Martin del Campo © 2008

All rights reserved

Words from the Editors: Despite the comings and goings of our eventful lives, we

have succeeded in compiling this edition. It took much thought

to bring you the best of the many submissions we received. It

was a pleasure serving as an editor for this edition; however, it

would not have been possible without the individual gifts of the

entire Reflections staff: Jonathan, Alicia, Erica, Tony, and

Monica. Yet, we cannot forget those at the heart of this issue—

our writers, poets, and artists. We thank each of you who has

contributed a piece of your uniqueness and who, I am sure, will

continue to do so in the issues to come. We encourage you, our

readers, to provide feedback on what you like and what you

would like to see. Also, please consider submitting some of your

own work for future publication in the next issue of Reflections.

Enjoy!

Gladys Benavides

***

These nine months spiraled.

Sometimes burgeoned like Monarchs

bursting from cocoons.

This is our zenith.

Here! Peruse this Reflections,

from us to everyone.

Jonathan Martinez

25 Reflections

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

Reflections, TAMIU‟s art magazine, accepts submissions of prose (fiction and non-fiction), poetry, es-

says (personal and critical), and visual art. Submissions missing critical information (such as name and/or

contact information) will not be considered for publication.

Guidelines for prose, poetry, and essays

Include a cover letter with the following information: your name, phone number, home address, email

address, genre (prose, poetry, visual art, etc.), title of work(s), word/line count, and a short paragraph

with relevant information about yourself.

Your name must NOT appear on the work(s) submitted. Only the title of your work must appear at

the top of each page.

Prose and essays must be 2000 words or less.

Poetry must be no more than 65 lines long.

Multiple submissions are accepted; however, please submit only one prose/essay piece or two to five

poems per cover letter.

Writing must be submitted on plain white 8.5 x 11 paper and must be typed using Times New Roman

font, size 12, double-spaced.

Written work may be submitted in any language; works submitted in languages other than English

must be accompanied by an English translation.

Guidelines for visual art

Painting, drawings, prints, photographs, and graphic designs are accepted. All work must be submitted on

a CD with a cover letter.

Works must be a minimum of 300 ppi (pixels per inch).

Work must be accompanied by a print-out copy.

Graphic designs will be accepted as long as there are NO copyright infringements.

Submit work to:

Kimberly R. Thomas

Writing Center, BCH 203

5201 University Blvd.

Laredo, TX 78401

(956) 326-2885

Texas A&M International University

Reflections is sponsored by the Texas A&M International University Writing Center and the Department of Language and Literature.

i Reflections

Contents

Reflections — Andy Benavides 1

Writing Under the Influence...of Women — Mario Martinez 1

Gaby — Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas 2

Traveling in Sand — Mario E.. Martinez 3

On a Path through a Plain — Jorge Garcia 3

Cryptic Love — Tony Casarez 4

My Charming Slot — O.G. Dumont 4

Un hombre de lucha —Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas 5

God Wearing Black — Melissa Duran 5

The Pride of Baghdad — Mike Herrera IV 5

We Think that was his Name — Andy Benavides 6

At the tides of infortune — Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas 6

To Bury — Hannah Somerville 7

Low Melting Point — Evelyn Martinez 9

Shattered then Reconditioned — Jonathan Martinez 9

Quetzalli — Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas 9

Remember to Cry instead of Laugh — J. Aguilar 10

Reflections 24

Miranda Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas

Reflections ii

Contents

Mata Leao — Tony Casarez 13

Sparrow War — Jonathan Martinez 14

Madame Du Monde and Her Five Lovely Crows — O.G. Dumont 14

Somewhere over Texas — Michael Martinez 14

Pakal — Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas 15

Her name is Inspiration — Jose R. Guerra 16

For Belen — Mike Herrera IV 16

The Problem with Sandals — Andy Benavides 17

Little Birdie — Magdalena Omaña 17

brown thighs — Mike Herrera IV 18

Legs — Mario Martinez 18

Delilah: Man‟s Love, Man‟s Fall — Tony Casarez 19

Headless — Magdalena Omaña 19

Dirty Senses — Jonathan Martinez 19

Again — Mario Martinez 20

Between Roswell and Clovis, New Mexico — Michael Martinez 23

Miranda — Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas 24

23 Reflections

Between Roswell and Clovis, New Mexico Michael Martinez

1 Reflections

Reflections Andy Benavides

I sit

in my

canoe

at noon

everyday

to slice away

wavelets

from ducks

with my oars

It helps

to blur

reflections

of others

who

sailed through

this glossy

body

of blue

Their birds

on their shoulders

smoke rings

from cigars

ascend like incense

to send me

to see

my expression

at the bottom

Writing Under the Influence…of Women Mario Martinez

It‟s like an old

Squeeze box

Pulled and filled

Languidly into a slow

And steady drone

Through the cavities

Of metal plates

Vibrating the strings

Of my wooden arms

And legs on a stage

In a smoky room

Surrounded by lipstick

Reddened rims baring teeth

As if the darkness

Had a million faceted eyes

Turning my wooden

Body clicking on sawdust

A dumb face painted on

My unthinking head

Until the rims close

Like spotlight shutters

And I hang

Like a forgotten criminal

Pinned

In the air staring

Down at my footprints

Dancing on the floor

With that dumb look

Painted on my face

Reflections 22

***

Just over the next hill, then I‟ll be close. The closer to that knife, the closer I am to sleeping in my

bed, trying to forget tonight, trying to forget him. Its dark, but I‟ve nearly worn a path out here. Creature

of routine. I kicked around the clearing like a blind man until I hear the dull thud of wood connecting

with boot. My hands reached out and felt the leaves of the horrid bush. They probed deeper, grazing

thorns, webs, and whatever else resided there. Tiny ants crawled up my arms. Brushing the small hair of

my hands aside, they charged like a blind battalion. Needles puncture my skin, the ants feasting on the

one who disrupts their work. My teeth gnashed together, my jaw tightened, I couldn‟t fail. The tip of my

finger touched cooling skin and I nearly vomited. My hand opened, trying to judge what I felt. Flat, dead

skin greeted my fingertips. They moved down, grazing more leathery skin. I felt a set of smooth bones,

surrounded by wiry, matted hair. I vomited on hands and knees when I realized it was a face frozen in

agony.

Each heave and constriction felt like fear was leaving me. At first I fought it. Choking back the

stinging stomach acid, vainly attempting to swallow it and will my fluids to halt their escape. But, accept-

ing my revulsion seemed to work.

Just get it out of your system. The job is almost done.

My hands went back into the bush quickly, no longer needing finesse. It was easy to find the

knife, its wooden handle jutted out of his chest, encased in dead hands. I opened the fingers quickly and

ungracefully, afraid that any prolonged exposure would harm me.

Death was contagious then.

I pulled the knife from him, this time no blood followed. I scrubbed at the blade with my shirt,

hoping that it would gain its glimmer again, its holiness. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but spit and a cheap

shirt weren‟t enough. As soon as I neared the house, I could see that clearly. The knife had a tint of red to

it, the reflective glow no longer holy but perverse. “Son, this was never meant to cut anything that

screams, again. That‟s what I‟ll tell him,” I whispered as I snuck through the back door.

Reflections 2

Gaby Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas

21 Reflections

places to hide. Just over this little hill and my nightly adobe will be in sight. The hill‟s top gave way to a

round clearing, my destination. Nothing fancy, just an old wooden crate and a tin box underneath

it, just in case I need to stash anything. The dusty old crate creaked and moaned, the nails slightly com-

ing loose, giving it a little spring when you sat down. The joint, finding its way into my mouth of its

own accord, crinkled like new money as it scraped out of my denim pocket. My brain never registered

the movement. I‟m a creature of routine, after all. The scratching sound of my lighter‟s wheel disturbed

the calm evening‟s music, but nature didn‟t wait long to start anew. The tiny ember glowed and glowed,

white rivers drifted in the night wind, but its nothing compared to the quickly dying sunset. The sky, a

jumble of reds and oranges, is the only thing I‟ll miss. My fast-fading tensions gave my mind the room

to fully digest the splendor descending before me.

The knife slid out of its sheath with a loud and pronounced cinematic scrape. He must have

cleaned it before he handed it over. Leaning forward, trying to stuff my old man‟s gift into its proper

place, I heard the bushes behind me stir. I spun, blade in front of me, the joint, now just a little more than

a single ember and resin stained paper, still smoked between my lips. The bushes were thick, plenty of

rain in the past month; everything was a little fuller, a little greener. The sun, setting as fast as it did, did-

n‟t help matters much. The bush thrashed, leaves flew all around, the tiny branches screamed. Grunts

and frustrated snarls poured from the leaves. Javalina, I thought. Those little pigs were everywhere this

time of year. Their smelly gray fur hid them well at dusk. I‟m surprised I couldn‟t smell it sooner, but

my nose was filled with smoke.

Good thing they can‟t scream, I thought as I slammed the blade into the bushes. The blade slid

effortlessly into flesh, the hilt jerked to a stop when it hit bone, and the hot spray of blood engulfed my

hand and wrist. The bush went mad. Tossing from side to side, leaves jumped into the air like rats from a

sinking ship. The knife, wrestled from my hand, bucked with its victim. The sounds from the bush cut

through the night clearer than any piece of steel.

As the bush went through its death-throes, a husky voice broke my temporary victory. “Dios te

salve, María,” whimpered the bush. The bush settled, and only the prayer chanted through the night,

“Santa María, Madre de Dios.” I stumbled over the wooden crate and crawled away to the edge of the

clearing. I knelt, listening to the moans and prayers of a man, a dying man. The sun, nearly out of the

sky, stained the horizon red.

The blood, I need to clean the blood.

I rubbed my hands with the dirt I knelt in, the blood and dirt clumping together, dropping little

nuggets of gore around me. Chips of stone scraped and burnt my skin, but I scrubbed and scrubbed, my

feet carrying me to the house. The knife had not yet entered my thoughts.

3 Reflections

On a Path through the Plain Jorge Garcia

Slicked back silence

Over dreams that once

Stood screaming

Independence

Where wishes are whispered

And prayers are never heard

Grass pokes like a

Million toothpicks through to the sky

To be eaten

To die

Where men forge fingers into ice picks

And hands bleed because the dust

Isn‟t soft sometimes

It never has been

It‟s seen and felt

In the smell of

Blunt women who

Don‟t lie because it‟s

Not efficient

Order only what they need

And hope that land

Gives rests to

Their unsecured lot

Come on cow

Says that man

With a hammer

cocked contraption

In hand

Don‟t you die you hear

Come on

My porcelain piggy

It‟s not time

To break

Traveling in Sand Mario E. Martinez

I walk

Tethered to stones

By ropes that itch

On every joint

Slowing me

The ropes are long

And taught with split ends

Glowing in the unrelenting sun

As I drag deep rivets

Into the endless sands.

Each stone

Etched with names

Deep and dark

Holds me at bay with swelling sands

But the tiny grains falter

And once in a while in the endless monotony

A rope snaps and a name

Drops to the dirt

Forgotten.

To pass the endless time

I‟ll look over my sun scorched

Shoulders rubbed raw by glare

And fibers that burrow like needles

And shading my eyes

I look at the stones

And see the dragging trails

I left in my journey‟s wake.

Once, when a line snapped

From my throat

I hefted the stone

And walked on

But like a sponge

It drank the heat and leaked it

Onto my skin

Singing it until I dropped

The damn thing with a thud

And no memory of the symbols

Etched into its face.

The stones smile and reach

Out with snapped lines like a half-starved

Drunk trying to crawl home

And I smile and wave

Knowing they are exactly what they seem

Anchors for shores long dried

And the ports I never wish

To see again.

Reflections 20

Again

Mario E. Martinez

It wasn‟t much of a knife the old man gave me. Just a straight blade a little longer than the palm

of my hand, the wooden handle old and cracked from years of ranch work‟s abuse. “Son,” he told me,

“this was never meant to cut anything that screams.” I rolled my eyes when I heard this, it was too Star

Wars for my tastes--Use the force, my son, and all that jazz. Maybe if I looked straight ahead I‟d have

dodged that slap across the head. “My dad gave this knife to me when I turned sixteen and his father

gave it to him when he was sixteen,” he grabbed the gift by the blade and offered the handle to me.

“Happy birthday, son. Remember what I told you.” I flipped the knife around in my hands, inspecting its

age; the blade shined with an inner vitality. The ugly hand of time never caressed this steel.

Now, it‟s gone, but I have to get it back. I need to. I have to give it my son. I have to keep the

tradition going; only now I have to add “again” to the first part. “Son, this was never meant to cut any-

thing that screams, again.” Dad . . . So soon, so soon. I let you down again. I’ll get that knife back, I

don’t care if I need to go back there to get it. I just hope he didn‟t move.

***

Sixteen, huh? I guess it‟s something to be happy about. One step closer to being a man, whatev-

er that means. I can drive now, but I‟ve been driving around the ranch for years. Standard, automatic,

truck, or tractor, you name it, I‟ve driven it. The neatly rolled joint in my pocket is screaming at me, lov-

ingly nibbling at my thigh. Taste me, burn me, love me. The words bounced from lobe to lobe in my

head, but I‟m not far enough away. I can still see the lights from the house, still smell the burnt food the

old lady plopped in front of us earlier.

Just over the next hill.

I just need to get far enough away so the smell won‟t get carried on the wind through the kitchen

window and into my old lady‟s nostrils. Just a little further. Then, I‟ll blend into the background, just

another sound in the noisy world.

The ranch isn‟t much of a sight if you ask me, just a few dozen acres near the border of Mexico.

It used to be a huge place, thousands and thousands of green acres, stretching as far as I could see. Over

the years droughts dominated. We started selling acres to keep our heads above water: a dozen acres

sold here, a dozen there. Now all we have is a beat-up little ranch house patched together with any piece

of scrap we could find. All we need is a monkey butler and we have a little island hideaway. Home

sweet home. It feels like a cage of mesquite crushing me. I‟m the only one who can see the green be-

yond our fences, but no one else believes it‟s there. Everyone is content rotting in his or her own stagna-

tion, unable to see past our piles of dirt. I guess the only good thing about a ranch is never running out of

Reflections 4

Cryptic Love Tony Casarez

Like a

VIPER in the night

That is

fixed with a stare.

They

bite you upright

With a

bitter & loveful GLARE

And

hard and great MIGHT.

Oh

how these feelings I can‟t bear!

This

causes the struggle and fight.

To

Love back would be a dare.

But I am this snake‟s charmer

And by the same token

This serpent heals me calmer.

Nothing that is fixed was ever broken…

But you and I

Are two hearts unspoken?

19 Reflections

Headless Magdalena Omaña

Trace the thin wires,

vomited on the floor.

Observe how these

stiff threads stroke the dust.

Fanned out. Straw-like.

Trace the thin wires,

Red. Blue. Green.

Yellow. Black.

Transmit decayed data.

Trace the thin wires.

They now dance with golden

shadows. Trace the thin wires.

Their attachment

to the skull. Cyber roots

bulge under the skin.

Trace the thin wires.

Erupting from the neck,

which claims no body.

Delilah: Man’s Love, Man’s Fall Tony Casarez

Through troubled hearts,

Two lovers

Find the pain of hate‟s enemy.

Because of the Princess,

His fall was purposed:

Hair was cut…

Strong became weak…

Warrior became trialed.

But he found a way to bring down

His captors.

Although he fell, he took down

An entire race with him.

The White T‟s that

Are plain

Speak of the name

That fell Samson.

Dirty Senses Jonathan Martinez

From left wafts

Menagerie of flavors

The coconut and lime

Orgy with vanilla

To intoxicate mentality

Burnt sienna strands

Bundled into bun—

“Burp”

Damn dirty girl!

My Charming Slot O.G. Dumont

Lipstick;

Check. √

D‟or Parfume

Check. √

Shanel Purse;

Check. √

Key:

Yellow High Heels; check. √

Cheap Armani dress mom gave me;

Check. √ Door shuts behind

Me, another hard (k)night

waits, but child‟s gotta

Eat, → I get cli-

ents with sad-

ness; some,

with perversions;

some with fantasies,

some I do enjoy to the

very bone; some come with

many hidden things in their

heads. “What does it feel

like,” many-a-one do

ask, “to make love-

less luv?”

I really

Don‟t

Know,

But I

Always

Get

To

Charge,

+That

Mat-

Ters

the Most.

C‟mon, look at me; looks are my business.

I‟ve sold myself to world‟s pleasures + life‟s runway.

Reflections 18

brown thighs Mike Herrera IV

she stretched after

exercise

brown thighs in barely-

there shorts, taut and teasing

my best intentions.

my eyes scaled brown thighs and fantasized.

lips caressing,

tongue teasing its way up until finally delving

into decadence, hot and moist like a Mayan

rite of passage,

center of your being coming to fruition,

your body set on fire

from within, and I taste melting

chocolate

drizzle on my lip

back arching, breasts attentive

your façade deliquesces, like a skin once shed

leaves a sexy beast, until you grasp the pillow

ready for the flood drenching the Earth

and your sheets,

painting the world your color, leaving

Eden for your people.

Nectar of a Goddess,

gives a warrior courage,

and after full union,

legs trembling, breath staccato

tells Quetzalcoatl his descendants are born again.

passing always through brown thighs

always.

Legs Mario Martinez

I saw them

Dancing in the light!

I saw them

Dancing in the light!

But I took a step

Into the clumsy web

Seen from hours before

Headlong and daring.

Hadn‟t the chance to clutch

My fingers in the night clouds

Before your little legs

Wrapped me in Styx‟s potency

My hair bundled in the painted

Pointed digits, I forgot

Oaths of honor, bonds of unseen

Blood, all the effects of the venom

That slickened my neck and face

With the Mad Hatter‟s stutter.

Not all the eyes,

X‟s or Y‟s,

Could pull me out

Of the neon marked trap

In my arms.

Amidst scattered cloth

And portals yelping to life and death

Ivory metal warped into a throne

As you traveled up and down

That web of my own musing

Hugging me like some Indian goddess

Giggling the sirens song

On the ways of your nature.

The moon aflame sent you

Into the dark corners

Unfed with none but a grinning

Mad man rubbing the holes left

Waiting to turn into something

Tangible again

Under the black sunshine.

5 Reflections

God

Wearing

Black Melissa Duran

Dear Father, why have you left us alone? Our

souls are becoming fragile, and we are all

collapsing from a terrible warfare we are

forced to fight. I want to see my family. I

want to see my daughter. I miss her placid

smile that gives me warmth. She just turned

six months. My eyes are dried up from the dust

that carries away the dead. Explosions, gun

shots, and mournful shouts I hear everyday

from this never-ending struggle for peace. We

love to torture ourselves like this. My youth

has been taken away by one word that destroys

nations. I don‟t see the oil that is supposed to

change life into harmony. Is my blood worth

the cost for someone‟s greed? Amen.

The Pride of Baghdad Mike Herrera IV

(based on the graphic novel by Brian K. Vaughan,

illustrated by Niko Henrichon)

Who saw the Pride of Baghdad saw

the teeth that rip the fleshy raw

four lions, Iron-Eagled freed

in Operation Shock and Awe.

Zoo keepers fled the bombing spree

cried out, in Farsi, Infamy!

left beasts of prey roaming the street

and stallions Lipizzanering.

The Graymane led his pride through heat

of singing bone beneath clawed feet;

descrying a palace thoroughbred,

he taught his cubs to hunt and eat.

But Graymane roared, collapsed, and bled

strange men with firesticks fired him dead,

turned tail, like asses taking fright

and from the Pride of Baghdad fled.

Un hombre de lucha Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas

Un hombre de lucha,

que sus manos ensucia;

trabajando con la piedra,

detallando la madera,

para logro del sustento.

Que en su Mirada se asoma

el haz del future,

promisorio con suave aroma,

con la fe; seguro.

Piel que se quema.

Años que se lleva.

Y aun la templanza;

erosion, pero no se quiebra!

Reflections 6

At the tides of infortune Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas

At the tide of infortune

you stand tall

looking your construction.

With rugged hands

sliding over your crafts.

feeling your life

gripping from the tide.

Mightiest!

Destroyer of nations;

And yet,

You stand tall.

Not forever adrift on the stormy seas!

You will prevail at all means,

departed from the rudderless

you will fight ruthless.

At the times of infortune,

you stand tall!

But when the sun shines

You will stand above!

We think that was his Name Andy Benavides

Johnny Trend—we believe—

stood on the highest peak

anyone cared to see.

He stomped on all

plants and jars

and jigged around

counter clockwise

to counter all that others‟ eyes

have seen before.

But he stepped on a Willow‟s root

and slipped off the peak;

all saw him tumbling

as he squealed and shrieked.

He rolled for a while,

smacked every rock; he spun

on his back clockwise till he hit—

no one knows where.

Someone forget to tell

our forgotten friend

his name can‟t be spelled

without an “End.”

17 Reflections

The Problem with Sandals Andy Benavides

Alone with ammonia stinging my nose

The faucet drips and the blue tile glows

Please, let none walk in and spray Golden showers on my toes.

The door creeks; a wide load bulges through

In red short shorts and a long hair do.

Please, don‟t spray Golden Showers on my toes, dude.

Three fountains in total, I using one on the right

Big man—yes he did dare decide—zips down too close in my

sight.

Please, no Golden Showers on my toes tonight.

I wait and wiggle my dry friends from sandals exposed.

Big Man‟s back side, wind it blows.

Just, please, no Golden Showers on my toes.

My business is done.

I‟ll zip and be gone.

Yes, no Golden Showers, absolutely none.

A tilt of the handle floods the waters away

The urinal over flows in disarray

And Golden Water Falls soak my toes, all the way.

Little Birdie Magdalena Omaña

Why did you swoop?

Why did you drop

A white stain?

Why must I

Clean?

Why choose the

New

To drop

Your dew?

Why mine?

Why not his,

Black and

Shine?

Why not hers,

Blue like

The sky you

Like?

Why

Little birdie,

Why?

Why did you

Not crap

Elsewhere?

7 Reflections

To Bury Hannah Somerville

My expression is blank. He shifts in his seat to look at me.

“Need to pee?” He asks “I‟m gonna stop for some cigarettes.”

The Arizona highway plods on ahead of us, never ceasing it‟s straight path.

Squatting on the edge of the road—as though it fell out of bed of someone‟s truck—is a convenience store.

“Aren‟t we almost there?” I question.

He seems taken aback by my tone. His face scrunches up in a way I adore. When he‟s upset, his

eyes disappear and his mouth turns down in a perfect frown.

“Sweetheart, you don‟t have to get smart with me.”

I didn‟t mean to seem angry. I smile to reassure the both of us.

“I don‟t have to use the bathroom.” I say.

We‟ve reached the store. Kaktus Mart, it‟s called. The misspelled title reflects the whole mood of

the place. Stucco peels from the exterior walls and a lone gas pump drips from its spout.

Clint hops out of the truck and disappears inside. A bell sounds from the door as it closes behind

him.

We‟re going to Tucson to bury his father. The drive from Denver has been long. And once we left

Colorado, it became achingly hot. The Dodge‟s AC isn‟t what is used to be.

Clint didn‟t cry when he got the call. His sister‟s sobs echoed through our living room. His thick

southern accent only accepted solemnly.

“Right,” he said. “Yeah, we‟ll be there, Jenny.”

He hadn‟t even tried to comfort her.

I‟d packed for us. I remembered his shave gel, my gray eyeshadow. We left in the late afternoon,

and I drove until it was dusk. As the sun set, he stared out the window. In books and movies, when someone

dies, it‟s always a beautiful day. In Denver, the trees were rightfully gray and bare.

The sky, however, abandoned all modesty. Wispy clouds arced in a perfect resemblance of care-free

seagulls. The sun shone orange and pink, shading the bottom of the lapis backdrop. I felt a little angry—if

only because those novels had taught me to—at the sky and its beauty, but I reasoned that perhaps it was a

sign from Clint‟s dad. Peeking over, I‟d discovered his eyes hooded and foggy, and so withheld my

thoughts.

After six hours we stopped in Santa Fe. The motel had yellowed sheets. I sat on the bed while he

brushed his teeth. After putting on his pajamas, he hopped into bed and turned off the lamp.

Reflections 16

For Belen Mike Herrera IV

Blue veins outline her borders

in white hands like leather

or where she lived for ninety-nine

years.

Mexican woman stocking, mop-

ping

grocery store she owns, well

maybe the bank does.

But that‟s faded brown pictures.

I squeeze the talcum too hard,

spewing

a white cloud she‟s lost in forev-

er,

maybe ninety-nine years.

Until we find her under heavy

white sheets

needles tearing blue veins

forcing ninety-nine tears

liquid dinner from a plastic womb

feeding thirty-two electrolytes

and ninety-nine fears.

Volcanico

stains my hands red.

I leave an imprint on the wall:

a red hand

like a crossing guard‟s palm,

telling death to stop.

Blue veins

mark her borders

between here and after

as on a bridge between countries

she sways

teeters in between her

Sabado Gigante

and feeding tubes like tentacles

drip drip

Her name is Inspiration Jose R. Guerra

I‟m standing.

Straining eyesight

across a long hallway.

Shimmering lights leave shadows of nothing on the walls.

Just light. Just dark. Just nothing.

A whisper,

masked in the silence,

almost audible,

almost inaudible,

said

I‟m here.

She said. I‟m here.

And then Nothing.

Just light. Just dark.

Just nothing.

Reflections 8

I waited for him to open up. I‟d been waiting all day. “I‟m really gonna miss „im,” he might say, or “ I wish

I‟d visited „im when they put „im in the hospital.” But as I lay waiting beside him, his snores put my expec-

tations to rest.

When my mother was ill, I‟d rushed to her bedside. I‟d cried and cried in the weeks preceding her

death. The doctors always told me there was hope, but I felt that I knew better. In a way, I hoped the crying

before would prevent the grief that came after death, or that maybe I would weep in vain and she‟d be

checked out within the week.

When death finally dragged her out of that hospital bed, my own bed turned into an ocean. I swam

through my grief for close to a month. It was a dramatic time in my life.

I understood that Clint was a grown man, and a southern one at that. I understood that maybe he‟d

want to live up to his manliness.

We were on the road by 8 a.m. the next day, country music blaring from the speakers. When a Marl-

boro wasn‟t trembling on the edge on his lips a toothpick was, which he turned over between his teeth.

I fell into a daze for most of the morning, and by 2 we‟d reached the Kaktus Mart.

I watch through Kaktus Mart‟s dusty glass window as he pulls out rumpled bills from his wallet,

handing them to the cashier. I try to read his movements, his expressions. After three years, I would like to

think I know how to do this. His calloused hands rifle through the billfold. He shoves it back into his pocket.

He swipes up the cigarettes. Though they look like agitated motions, I know that this is just him.

I watch his eyes. They‟re half-closed in that lazy way, as though he‟s just stared into the sun for too

long. That‟s what I first thought about him when we met. He had that southern drawl, those squinted eyes. I

was sure he spent his evening riding an Appaloosa toward the setting sky.

He‟d been a baseball playing teen, however, in Charleston, North Carolina. He‟d grown up with a

mother whose iron fist allowed no disrespect. His father was a dentist. We‟ve never discussed his parents in

more detail than that. I guess it just never came up. I‟m not one to jabber on for hours.

Sometimes I even wonder if he listens. If he does, he should know my whole life history—even the

grossly embarrassing parts. I forget to ask questions, I guess. And when I do, his answers are usually short. I

don‟t know how he related to his father. I imagine that maybe Dad wasn‟t home too much for young Clint.

Maybe he spent long hours at the office. But the baseball-playing Clint couldn‟t have taken up baseball un-

less some sort of father figure had introduced him to catch, had bought him a glove. My broad imagination

pictures a man and his son rubbing oil onto a leather mitt, wrapping it with around a ball and securing it with

a rubber band. I envision the boy looking up into his fathers eyes adoringly.

My eyes slide sideways to Clint‟s face. Crystal tears slide down his stubbled cheeks. The tall

Saguaro‟s, their palms to the sky, shrug along the side of the highway.

15 Reflections

Pakal Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas

Reflections 14

Sparrow War Jonathan Martinez

Two miniature BF109s circle.

charge

Brittle bones frame sparrow wings.

Dart, peck, and dash apart.

clash

They swoop down into Mexican lime trees.

Spades rustle, swathe unseen combatants.

blas-

st

A twitter erupts, then, frantic reply.

Reinforcement barrels in; conquest is apparent.

rush

Wounded machine retreats; single feather blows

back into battlefield. Vanquishers,

b oo m

Somewhere over Texas

Michael Martinez

Madame Du Monde

and Her Five Lovely Crows

O.G. Dumont

With a clean unfolded hand,

Madame Du Monde espoused five little crows.

With a fond soul on her behalf,

Madame Du Monde sees them now grow fat.

Selfless care she provides to her lovely pets,

But she anticipates not the deepness of their plumage.

Soon time will reveal a first beak‟s peck;

Hurtful sure it‟ll be, for she might not expect it.

Her flesh will be punctured,

Eyes plucked out of their sockets,

Skin branded with ungrateful scars,

But will her love be any day lessened?

Poor Madame Du Monde of good heart,

Fate has strange ways to teach you hard.

9 Reflections

Low Melting Point Evelyn Martinez

I‟m lonely

Untouched by human arms

Isolated as ice

Hot tears fight to warm me

I refuse to let anything melt me

Then,

Who would I be?

a puddle.

Perhaps I am like dry ice

I‟d like to think I am,

Ever solid

Inviting

Hot and untouchable

Gravity pulls at my heart

I am not dry ice.

Rather than evaporate

I can melt

And drown

Once my heart loses

Its war with physics

How perfectly useless and messy.

So I,

This beating block of ice

Seek warmth in my own arms,

A pillow hugged to my chest,

A hand reaching to quiet the loneliness

Between my legs

I come in tears,

searching,

But I—

a feverish

abandoned

salty

puddle—

find nothing

Quetzalli Miguel Angel Omaña Rojas

A blossoming flower

at the menacing gates of winter!

You are to tower

above the gelid obstacles of the giver!

Shattered then Reconditioned Jonathan Martinez

Porcelain doll, ambivalent,

Spits at reality, winking, glaring

From within palm-streaked mirror.

Tears, wholly invisible,

Seep down within visage, manufactured,

Eroding love-blistered shell.

Appendages, rattled, cradle

Façade where behind

Reality shudders unseen.

Listless umbilical molders;

Soon, schism abates.

Epiphany born from narcotic womb.

Unabated, doll journeys toward

Verve existence.

Reflections 10

Remember to Cry instead of Laugh

J. Aguilar

It was in February of 1999, a few days after Valentine‟s, when it happened.

I stared up at the brown water-stains scattered across my bedroom ceiling like cancer.

Class began in ninety-minutes, but the importance of pursuing an education wasn‟t enough to

pull me out of bed.

Despite the lackluster start to my morning, a good day brewed. I had the day off from

working at Office Depot‟s Copy and Print Center. I was a copy and print “specialist;” essential-

ly, I made copies for people too lazy to use the self-serve copiers.

That afternoon, a buddy of mine—I‟ll call him Artie—phoned. Our conversation proba-

bly went like this:

“There‟s a party tonight at Leo‟s. You going to come?” Artie said.

“Sure. What time?”

“Around seven or so. I‟ll call later.”

Nothing out of the ordinary. At this point in my life, I was constantly out. It pained my

mother. Once, she told me that whenever I barged in staggering to and fro toward my room, she

would pretend to be asleep. She didn‟t want me to catch her waiting up for me since I tended to

yell.

Throughout the day, I wrestled with the idea of going to Leo‟s but don‟t know why. I

remember feeling tired of constantly hanging out with the same people and doing the same she-

nanigans over and over. It seems sad now. Only eighteen and already burdened by the nuances

of living life. My friends were great but being with them scared me. Waking up the next day

without huge chunks of time became routine. They would stare at me sometimes, afterwards,

their eyes filled with secrets; their smiles signaled understanding. Afraid to learn who I really

was, I never bothered to ask anyone what, if anything, I did.

The events leading up to that night blur together. I imagine I took out money from an

13 Reflections

Do I laugh at the verisimilitude I represent? No. It’s time to wake myself up.

“What are you laughing at?” The stranger walks away and now stands near my feet.

I‟m laughing because of the pain of falling is what I want to say. Or perhaps it was only my

imagination. I can‟t breathe again. The laughing hurts.

Pressure bears down on my left ankle. It‟s his work boot.

“Why you laughing?”

I can‟t answer. I suck in a breath when I notice the pressure is gone. At least for a second.

He is in the air—or is it me in the air—and then, he comes down.

“Why is he still laughing,” the stranger yells. To whom, I don‟t know.

I clutch my ankle, curl into a fetus position and chuckle until it turns into a true laugh. Two pairs of

arms hoist me up and drag me to a folding chair. I still don‟t feel anything, but I‟m still laughing. Probably

because I forgot how to cry; I would laugh for six more years until I finally remembered how.

***

Mata-Leao Tony Casarez

I am tired… and will rule

Tomorrow.

The white light nears,

The pain becomes numbness.

Stubbornness turns into pride:

I will not submit, he says.

He does submit and gasps

As the choke is released.

I win today, but tomorrow , who knows?

The beast is humbled

And the humbled becomes proud…

We are all beasts in a den.

Some with pride

Others with humility.

Roar, I yell, roar!

Reflections 12

boots, caked red, and camouflage cargo shorts; one of the pockets had a nickel-sized hole. I know

because whenever he stuck his hands into his pockets one of his digits tipped with a grimy finger-

nail would peek out, wondering about our conversation. He never blinked, and his pupils

appeared to shiver as his eyeballs darted around following an insect the rest of us couldn‟t see. He

kept scratching, especially at this one spot on the back of his left hand.

“Why do you keep scratching?” Artie asked.

He tried to answer, but Artie had already moved on to another topic. The man started to talk about

this girl he dated when he was in high school. I don‟t remember much after that.

I‟m on the driveway. I must have tripped. Laughter floats above me as a syrupy smell wafts

into my nostrils; I‟m next to a puddle of antifreeze. The laughing continues, a deep, full laugh, pul-

sating like propeller blades.

Who is laughing?

I try to speak, but I can‟t breathe. My chest quivers from the ache. Finally a gulp of air fills

my lungs as the laughing stops.

I‟m the one laughing.

The slap of a rubber heel approaches; the stranger stands next to me. I laugh again.

Maybe I laugh at the absurdity of knowing that the crazy-eyed man, picking at the invisible

insects burrowing under his skin, is me.

At eighteen, I‟m already lost. “Yeah man, you‟re cool. We understand you,” they will say,

this new generation, yet when I walk away, they will laugh. All the while they will continue to

smoke their joints, sniff their bumps, and submerge themselves into blind ecstasy. It‟s never-

ending, this cycle. This man, me, will move on and be replaced by others, and so on.

Look at me on the concrete. Don’t I see what I’ll be, a man with holes in his pockets unable

to keep anything in them?

“What are you laughing at?” I tell my other, the one lying on the concrete.

ATM, got myself a ride, and probably drank a bit before heading to the party. I know I was early. I

hate waltzing in when there is a crowd. People always turn and stare. Maybe they knew me and won-

dered what I would do tonight. Did they come to these gatherings to find out?

The night was in full swing. Billows of smoke hovered over our heads, our own private thun-

derclouds. Shimmering bottles—like people, some tall, others stout—of bronze and clear liquids

stood on a bench, its brown paint peeling away. The huge florescent light atop the utility pole flick-

ered off and on, plunging the gathering into black. When it did, the plastic cups filled with various

concoctions appeared to float as they disappeared from their owner‟s hands.

I remember this girl; she was younger than me I think by a year or two. Her dark brown hair

cascaded down past her shoulders, but that‟s all I really remember about her appearance. I thought

she was cute, at least until she laughed. It was more of a guffaw, a deep, harsh sound like a goose‟s

honk. I think about her sometimes since I believe someone spiked her drinks, this one guy in particu-

lar. His features are hazy, but I remember him because he wore a plain cap, except for its brilliant

green hue. It hurt my eyes.

I think the man with the green cap was a magician. Whenever the goose-woman emptied her

cup of whatever—I think she was drinking amaretto-sours—he would be there with a fresh cup. It

was quite the burlesque courtship. “Here, babe; here, babe,” he would repeat. I assumed he was her

boyfriend, but now, I‟m not sure. Later that night, Green Cap had his arm loosely wrapped around the

small of goose-woman‟s back and was leading her toward the front of Leo‟s front yard, probably to

her car or maybe his. Perhaps it was a sea-green Volkswagen New Beetle to match his green cap. I

hope she made it home okay. I like to think she did.

Artie, Leo, and a few others, all part of our little inner circle of close friends, were out front sitting on

these steel folding chairs. Everyone else who showed up to the party was still in Leo‟s backyard min-

gling and becoming stupid with drink. A guy was with us out front, a stranger. I didn‟t think much

about him at the time, but afterwards, I wondered where he came from. He wore these Redwing

11 Reflections