December 2016 - Comments Off on Julia Herrera

Julia Herrera

Cactus, Piss, Dogs, Police

The motor homes are back. The motor homes are back, meaning they're behind our house, meaning behind our house people are living. Meaning there are people living in motor homes that are parked behind our house. Mom's upset because now there's piss on our plants. She says when there are people living in motor homes, they've got to piss somewhere. Their door opens right out to our small patch of plants: aloe, agave, cactus. Also weeds. They open their door at night and piss on our plants. In addition to the piss, someone's been cutting our cactus. Dad and I know why. We have a story for the person who's been cutting our cactus. Like my father, he is probably from Mexico, perhaps Guatemala, but we think Mexico. He has figured out that instead of going to the store for his nopales, he can come to our little patch behind our house. This way, he can find an ingredient reminiscent of home without having to buy it. I understand. We just want him to cut it more kindly. Dad ends up putting a sign, "¡No corta!" because the cactus is looking too sad. Now that this little patch behind our house is becoming more frequented, made into a home, our dogs have picked up their barking again. Not that it was ever subtle. Our neighbors don't like this. Mom and Dad are upset. There might be a man sleeping between our garage and the neighbor's. Actually, there's a woman living there. She's coughing. Mom's upset about the piss the most, and so is Dad. The noise isn't helpful either. The motor homes creak like sex. I later realize why. My parents do too. Dad decides to call the police. I plead with him as always, "Papá, no. Why?" He makes the call. When the police arrive, they see my father first and go for him. He explains he is a homeowner. He made the call. The motor homes are back.

Innovative Fertility

Innovative Fertility does not want my eggs.
Maybe they think I'm rotten.
They think I'm rotten and my eggs are too.

Innovative Fertility thinks my brain is scrambled,
and my eggs are rotten.
A young man walks into the clinic.
He jerks off to many blondes

smaller than Pam Anderson, Carmen Electra, Rebecca Romijn maybe a little
too young, and releases into a plastic cup.
I take my meds nightly. I've not fantasized
about the other release in years.

I may not shave my hair, but I feed
my dog and take care of my father.
I bathe just about every day.

Published by: in Issue 1 : Fall 2016, Poetry, Volume 73

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