Bacardi Lips

Alejandro Lucero

Mom stung the penny holes in my eyes,

the scent of bleach mopped and poured

across the floor. Her evenings blue as any sky,

her soft liver always wanting more.

Each night she cleaned the windows, closed the doors,

        the liquor drumming a late-night beat inside. Her golden belly

     stretched, taut as goat skin over a melody.

Big sis and I kissed our dumb baby mouths on Mom’s Bacardi lips.

Years later, sis and I drank our own bottle filled with flecks of gold,

we danced drunkenly—a music we didn’t know pulled our hips

to the floor. My teenage leg a needle spinning the carpet’s mold.

Mom only cleaned hard surfaces; those that dried, then turned cold.

But what about what’s soft and absorbs inside,

        we asked,

there were so many places for stains like those to hide.

Why are your lips now stitched like a baseball, Ma

why was your hair trimmed today on a cold table,

why are your hands so lavender and small,

why did you assume I wasn’t able

to see the forecast of this gray day

like the weather always airing on cable.