Cry Baby
Priscilla Reyna is a poet from Las Vegas, NV. studying creative writing at Boise State University. She believes poetry dissolves us of our human form, strips all of the socio-political constructs and reveals what’s innately real—a necessity to the larger whole of humanity. She plans to go to graduate school to write some more after graduation. She likes to dance when she is not studying and mothering.
Cry Baby
Born 3 pounds with a drug addiction. The doc had to give me coke to keep me crying, because my mother couldn’t through her cord. To cut me off would be the end, not the beginning. Born 3 pounds with a drug addiction. Without death. I imagine it, the addiction, something like the Coca-Cola I crave. Its fizz. But I’ll never know because it’s never touched my blood since. Born 3 pounds with a drug addiction. My mother and father taught me not to touch that shit. Born 3 pounds with a drug addiction. Without peer pressure and its existence. Born 3 pounds with a drug addiction. With less weight to carry. An empty backpack. With less weight. Without clothes to cover those bones. With nicknames of Skinny Mini from mom and dad and Skeletor from the boys. With sisters to shut them up. Without clothes to cover those bones. With sisters to switch outfits with every day. Without surprise. Every third day a continuous pattern of stripes. With the kind of confidence no one noticed. No one said shit. No girls said shit. The boys weren’t looking for clothes, they were looking for bumps. And I didn’t have those. I had bones. Edges. Elbow edges. Sharp knees and knuckles. Without clothes to cover those bones. With intimacy that would last a lifetime. The kind we try to find in sex but only find in poetry. Have you ever worn a pair of clothes after someone? Not hand-me-downs- old clean clothes from your older sister or brother. Not thrift store. Have you ever put on a pair of clothes warm fresh off the flesh? Stretched, a little unfitting since sis is a bit thicker and I am made of bones. Without clothes to cover those bones. With care. Careful not to miss my lips with every sip of the milk carton in the morning. Careful to catch the piece of bite that slips before the smash onto my lap, my sisters’ lap, my lap. There is no splat. Every drop caught. Every spec devoured. We didn’t eat after lunch. Careful not to sit on a stain from other kids’ crumbs- my sister will have to wear with her tomorrow, and my other sister the day after that.