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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Natalie Scenters-Zapico - Neomachismo

To see if you're still alive, heat caramel in a pan until it spits asteroids on
your arms. Take good care of your burns. Your scars should never last
longer than two years. Pain needs a clean slate to play on.


Wear a red dress & let men pull at it all night. Your desire: to have your
hair pulled, to bleed, to lick your wounds like a dog in heat.


Say you're sorry for getting angry. Say you're sorry for being angry. Say
you're sorry that you're angry.


Anger is the emotion of men. By adding sugar, lime & salt you can turn
anger into sadness as a good woman should.


Stop sobbing, it's ugly. Instead, emulate the glass tears on virgins who
look up to the men who bruised their bodies.


Tell your man: You're machista. Have him repeat this statement back to
you in html.


Like in the movies let the pot boil over, until he screams he'll send you
back home to your mother. When he can't stop laughing, laugh too—
become the foreigner who doesn't understand.


¡Ay pena penita pena! Listen to Lola Flores & search for the pain
between your eyes on WebMD. Don't feel bad if you sob in one room
while he reads about aporia in the next.


Like la Lola Flores, you have beautiful hair; unlike la Lola, sell it to
make rent.


Laugh when he says: Mi'ja, cabróna, ingrata & eres mía. Assure him he's
not turning into his father.


When he says you are letting this happen, don't reply. Put his fingers
in your mouth & hold your breath when he asks: Who taught you to hate

Natalie Scenters-Zapico - One Body

Two ids walk into one body & fight over whether to break melon on the kitchen counter & eat it by the fistful or to throw the melon out a shut window & watch it break on the pavement, stabbed by shards of glass.

Sorry, for yelling through the speaker at the McDonald’s drive thru. Sorry, for not letting you through the door first. Sorry, I ate the dozen donuts in fifteen minutes over the sink. Sorry, I sound shrill, sound dumb, sound ditzy, sound spacey. Sorry, mom. I mean, mamá. I mean, miss. I mean, nevermind.

Dear body: Cut the melon into slices with the sharpest knife you can find & enjoy the pain you are causing this melon. Stop saying you’re sorry, instead feel guilty for being shrill, being dumb, being ditzy, being spacey. Feel guilty because your mom is your mamá is your miss is the one who is guilty for giving you this body with two ids, & one ego, & one superego who hush-hushes you whole.

Natalie Scenters-Zapico - Notes on My Present: A Contrapuntal

              With statements by President Donald Trump


I write my body, as border between

We have some bad hombres here

this rock & the absence of water.

& we’re going to get them out.

I cut myself with a scimitar,

When Mexico sends its people,

as political documentation.

they’re not sending their best.

How do you write about the violence

They’re not sending you.

of every man you’ve ever loved?

They’re sending people

Macho, you

that have lots of problems

breathe bright in the neocolony,

& they’re bringing those problems to us

a problem of Empire pulling

They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing

the capitalist threads of my border.

crime. They’re rapists.

Empire: you were so sterile

Mexico’s court system [is]corrupt.

& shiny with your dead man’s coins

I want nothing to do with Mexico

& castration, your white roses

other than to build an impenetrable

& that trash bag full of a Mexican

WALL & stop them from ripping

woman’s dark hair. Empire: you

off U.S. I love the Mexican people,

made us hungry for the glint

but Mexico is not our friend.

of machismo, the dim glare

They’re killing us at the border

of marianismo. Tonight on TV,

& they’re killing us on jobs & trade.

muted montages of the largest

FIGHT! Happy #CincodeMayo!

ICE raid in Texas. I drink

The best taco bowls are made

pink champagne in a hotel bar,

in Trump Tower Grill. I love Hispanics!

& correct the pronunciation of   my name.


Natalie Scenters-Zapico - Buen Esqueleto

Life is short, and I tell this to mis hijas.

Life is short, & I show them how to talk

to police without opening the door, how

to leave the social security number blank

on the exam, I tell this to mis hijas.

This world tells them I hate you every day

& I don’t keep this from mis hijas

because of the bus driver who kicks them

to the street for fare evasion. Because I love

mis hijas, I keep them from men who’d knock

their heads together just to hear the chime.

Life is short & the world is terrible. I know

no kind strangers in this country who aren’t

sisters a desert away, & I don’t keep this

from mis hijas. It’s not my job to sell

them the world, but to keep them safe

in case I get deported. Our first

landlord said with a bucket of bleach

the mold would come right off. He shook

mis hijas, said they had good bones

for hard work. Mi’jas, could we make this place

beautiful? I tried to make this place beautiful.

—After “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith