Chihuateteo Rip or Drum or Buzzing in My Ears
The skin of my lower stomach is a drying little round drum, tightening and tightening. I finger the deep, red symbols indented by the seams of my jeans before slipping on the papery, blue clinic dress that won’t rise even when I spin and spin. I throw up in a small black trashcan in a corner. My knees are above me like two mountains of flesh stretched over rock. There is a vacuum buzz. The kind I used to run from as a child. I turn from the sound to see Cihuateteo rip
out a corn plant and eat the roots. Then the sliding glass doors close behind me, my little drum silent. There is light bouncing from car to car, buzzing in my ears. The asphalt is sticking to the soles of my shoes.