So today I told mom that I want boobs just like her when I’m older. I told her I want boobs but not the kind of boobs that sag like hers. I want the kind of boobs she had before I was born. The boobs I saw in pictures back when she worked as a stripper at Scarlett’s Cabaret on Hallandale Beach Boulevard and I-95, which is the strip club right in front of the trailer park where I was born. Mom didn’t really think she was gonna give birth but I was ready. Came right out on the linoleum kitchen floor. Mom didn’t want to stain the carpet. In any case, mom said I can’t have boobs because I’m a boy and boys can’t have boobs. I remind her that boys have boobs. They’re just different than girl boobs. I remind her that even some of the boys at Scarlett’s had girl boobs and the customers didn’t seem to mind. Men are stupid, she said, but those boobs are not for you. Mom said those are decorative boobs and I told her I knew that. But I don’t care. I want to get fixed up when I’m grown up. I don’t want a flat chest or hairy man boobs. I want real boobs. The kind that make all the men go crazy. The kind that make men worship you. The kind that make men scream hallelujah Jesus Christ, hallelujah. Hallelujah? Mom asked. Hallelujah this! She screamed. My boobs are the reason why I gave birth to this mess. The house? I asked. Not the goddamn house she yelled back. I think I pissed mom off today, but I don’t care. I have dreams. Besides, I love this mess. Even when she opens her mouth.
We rolled over, but not on top of each other, because we’re not into that. I reached behind ma’s head and fluffed up the pillow. She kind of looked like this rugged rabbit with cabbage ears surrounded by a beautifully gloomy white cloud. Like a bunny, she wiggled her nose. Wiggled herself into my arms and close to my heart.
In a time of names a spoken antelope hopes for mud and insects. Mud and insects or whatever uncle measures informs a notion of a dismantled ship. Hope passes for a gun in a time of names. *collage haiku using found text
“It takes courage to be afraid.” –Montaigne, Essays, III, 6 (1588) Nothing scares the sun anymore. Not even sinking into the black sea. Not even the black sea and its power over sunsets. Not even the scars or parked cars on Sunday or the squirrels that dream of big things from the tops of enormous […]
The bridge & cranes dream of dogs and cats. They squint and find wormholes into other worlds. What they discover: there’s always one light that’s brighter than the other. And they are drawn to its luminescence with purpose. But there’s always something else in the distance, they think. Their fiercely squinted eyes look funny to […]
My name is Neil de la Flor and I am Almost Dorothy. I’m also the Executive Director of Reading Queer.Today, I need your help! Please consider supporting RQ’s mission to transform the community through the act & the art of creative writing @ http://readingqueer.org.
- Shabby Little Rabbit
- A Defense Against Sound & Order
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- A Story About Biscayne Bay
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