Seeds, and: Tianguis, and: Ribbon, and: Floating, and: Everyday Things, and: A Slice of Night

Abstract

Seeds, and: Tianguis, and: Ribbon, and: Floating, and: Everyday Things, and: A Slice of Night Teresa Tristan (bio) Seeds On my journey north, I run into God.He tells me the origin of my nameand I stitch it to my tongue. He warns it should only be spokenwhen the moon is full and the bloomshave closed their petals in prayer. Before he leaves, he dips his fingerin coyote blood and paints a crosson my forehead, my mouth, my chest. There is a lie in being saved.My aunt dies waiting for a voiceto guide her into whatever's next but the only sound in the roomis the morphine drip countingthe minutes in between pain. Her mouth can no longer praise,her eyes the yellow of a harvest moonopening and closing. I press my forehead to her head, whisper my name over and overand hope the seeds of my voice growinto the pinks and reds of wildflowers. [End Page 31] Their roots pushing through the tender soilof her ear, swelling into her brainand traveling down her body. They rip it open with an exhale,suffocate the cancerous cells inside her,they stop her breath, they bloom. Tianguis Before the black of night falls,the women gather their goodsfrom the sidewalk: embroidered handkerchiefs, stone necklaces,and rag dolls with colorful ribbonswoven into their braids like my mother laced in mine.A memory of Mexico. Something sweetfor the tourist to take home. Women built enterprises on these streetswith ashen hands and soles as strongas Chichen Itzá stone. I lean close to Agustina, her voiceraspy and sturdy, with the assuranceof a woman that carries the country strapped to her back in a red rebozo.She wraps a turquoise necklace on my collar,says a blessing for my name and tells me [End Page 32] to make my feet strong with the earthso when I cross the border north,I don't forget where my heart has roots. Ribbon I know the taste of longingat the tip of my tonguelike I know my mother's laughter.The memory is pleasure and paintightly wrapped with a black silk ribbon.My grandmother pulling a ribbonaround my waist, she says I need to payattention to my shape, she pulls me closerto myself, constricting, taking my breath.My mother is measuring my beautywith her sewing tape. The tape is tightaround my hips, my breasts, my armsand she is writing down all the waysI am not like her, all the ways I will fail her.My lover pulls the ribbon end loose,unspools my breath to his facewrapping his arms around my torsotighter and tighter, until it is too hot,until there is nothing between usbut the feeling of skin, until I am lost. [End Page 33] Floating My father told me, no matter how hard he tries,he always makes a mess, after he painted the living roomin my house, soft white fingerprints on my furniture,the imprint of his shoes on the wooden floor. It does not matter. I have learned this is how he loves.We talk about repairs to be done and he shows mehow to repair damaged drywall, how to createa smooth wall out of a broken one. Floating drywall is one of the first things he learned.He took construction jobs in the US to pay for college,followed a group of men around Texas, home to homecovering up imperfections, laughing, drinking, everyday cleaning the paint from under his fingernails,his hair, a new layer of mud and paint on his clothes.He knew it was temporary, this was not home.I never bothered with learning English, he said, what for. He muddies the seam between two pieces of drywall,I slide the tape from ceiling to floor, cutting the bottomwith a box cutter. Another slop of mud from his puddy knife,the tape disappears. I don't know he says, I never thought I'd be here. Everyday Things I've spent too much...