LITMIR.BIZ

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      She tells me I owe it to

      God and myself to devote.

      She tells me this country is too soft

      and gives kids too many choices.

      She tells me if I don’t confirm here

      she will send me to D.R.,

      where the priests and nuns know

      how to elicit true piety.

      I look at her scarred knuckles.

      I know exactly how she was taught

      faith.

When You’re Born to Old Parents

      Who’d given up hope for children

      and then are suddenly gifted with twins,

      you will be hailed a miracle.

      An answered prayer.

      A symbol of God’s love.

      The neighbors will make the sign of the cross

      when they see you,

      thankful you were not a tumor

      in your mother’s belly

      like the whole barrio feared.

When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued

      Your father will never touch rum again.

      He will stop hanging out at the bodega

      where the old men go to flirt.

      He will no longer play music

      that inspires swishing or thrusting.

      You will not grow up listening

      to the slow pull of an accordion

      or rake of the güira.

      Your father will become “un hombre serio.”

      Merengue might be your people’s music

      but Papi will reject anything

      that might sing him toward temptation.

When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued Again

      Your mother will engrave

      your name on a bracelet,

      the words Mi Hija on the other side.

      This will be your favorite gift.

      This will become a despised shackle.

      Your mother will take to church

      like a dove thrust into the sky.

      She was faithful before, but now

      she will go to Mass every single day.

      You will be forced to go with her

      until your knees learn the splinters of pews,

      the mustiness of incense,

      the way a priest’s robe tries to shush silent

      all the echoing doubts

      ringing in your heart.

The Last Word on Being Born to Old Parents

      You will learn to hate it.

      No one, not even your twin brother,

      will understand the burden

      you feel because of your birth;

      your mother has sight for nothing

      but you two and God;

      your father seems to be serving

      a penance, an oath of solitary silence.

      Their gazes and words

      are heavy with all the things

      they want you to be.

      It is ungrateful to feel like a burden.

      It is ungrateful to resent my own birth.

      I know that Twin and I are miracles.

      Aren’t we reminded every single day?

Rumor Has It,

      Mami was a comparona:

      stuck-up, they said, head high in the air,

      hair that flipped so hard

      that shit was doing somersaults.

      Mami was born en La Capital,

      in a barrio of thirst buckets

      who wrote odes to her legs,

      but the only man Mami wanted

      was nailed to a cross.

      Since she was a little girl

      Mami wanted to wear a habit,

      wanted prayer and the closest

      thing to an automatic heaven admission

      she could get.

      Rumor has it, Mami was forced to marry Papi;

      nominated by her family

      so she could travel to the States.

      It was supposed to be a business deal,

      but thirty years later, here they still are.

      And I don’t think Mami’s ever forgiven Papi

      for making her cheat on Jesus.

      Or all the other things he did.

       Tuesday, September 4

First Confirmation Class

      And I already want to pop the other kids right in the face.

      They stare at me like they don’t got the good sense—

      or manners—I’m sure their moms gave them.

      I clip my tongue between my teeth

      and don’t say nothing, don’t curse them out.

      But my back is stiff and I’m unable to shake them off.

      And sure, Caridad and I are older

      but we know most of the kids from around the way,

      or from last year’s youth Bible study.

      So I don’t know why they seem so surprised to see us here.

      Maybe they thought we’d already been confirmed,

      with the way our mothers are always up in the church.

      Maybe because I can’t keep the billboard frown off my face,

      the one that announces I’d rather be anywhere but here.

Father Sean

      Leads the confirmation class.

      He’s been the head priest at La Consagrada Iglesia

      as

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