“Come pick cotton husks
the misses’ refuses to
Please help us
We don’t know what to do.”
I walk down, obligingly sweet.
Singing along to the cardinal’s tweet.
Bopping my feet to an imagined beat
Not knowing it was you I had to meet.
I arrive, peel apart the cotton husks.
Dust caking my fingers, thorns pricking my hands
I work patiently, lungs soon filled with saccharine musk
Suddenly, you burst in, a Conquistador in a new land.
You greet me, and I reciprocate.
You smile, but I vacillate.
I, nervous, contemplate.
What to say to avoid your hate
We continue working, trapped in the same tiny office
You, tapping away on keys
Me, sorting plants, cotton threads filling the orifices
inside my nose and lungs as i split seeds.
We make small talk
even go so far as going for a little walk.
You scream when we see a snake, though I don’t mock.
You glare when I demurely ask about the doc.
We’ve realized, we speak the same, soft babied voices
We both bite our lips when we contemplate hard choices.
Melanations cover our oval faces
And everyone says we are made of the same gentle graces.
Say hi to him for me, I say, close to tears
“I will”, you say, eyeing the huge pile of cotton, amazed.
My heart races, my mind overwhelmed by fears.
You go home to him, worried, stymied, dazed.
I’m done picking cotton, ma’am
The Missus is completely surprised
On the tabletop lies a pile larger than a lamb
I leave the office, soul vaporized
I walk up, back home.
My mind has gone to roam
Thoughts as fertile as freshly tilled loam
Dark thoughts, my soul has lost its centered zone.
Do you fear my sensuality, or just me?
We aren’t that similar, are we?
Do I fear you, or what you can do?
What can I really do to you?
Floresita de Luna 