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