Karla Lamb
Mexican Superstition
the mother/ buffs a thin hummingbird/ out of smuggled amber/ sandpaper grit/ eroding fingerprints/ i choke on amber dust/ no choice/ but to strut/ amber beads on my neck/ wrists like aztec cascabeles/ the mother/ threads each amber bead on locally sourced leather/ the mother/ sits on oaxacan handwoven rug/ sidewalk artisan pop-up/ en coyoacán/ the mother/ upsells a spread of indigenous bracelets/ at tourist prices/ the mother/ wears an embroidered huipil from guatemala/ the mother/ is the patron-saint of pseudo-mexican folklore/ like never leave scissors on the bed or/ you’ll end up childless/ i am/ childless/ always wear chanclas/ even in your own shower/ never step barefoot on the blue tile floor/ watch out for the alacrán/ you’ll get a cold/ you’ll die alone/ the abuela says/ everything is cancer/ my phone is cancer/ my tattoos are cancer/ my choices are cancer/ amber beads/ absorb el malo ojo/ from strangers/ in the mercado/ from la mala vibra/ while i’m in the crib/ while i’m in the earthquake/ in 1985/ in 2003/ in 2017/ while lava bleeds down the volcano’s thigh/ the mother/ shields from the absent father/ the mother/ sacrifices her young/ la mala vibra/ is everywhere/ in the metro/ el centro/ el zocalo/ el gobierno protects los carteles/ los carteles are everywhere/ the mother/ offers the amber hummingbird/ to huitzilopochtli/ the aztec god of war/ finds a feather in her apron/ becomes pregnant/ with the sun-god/ the mother/ outsources raw amber to the states/ traffics the myth/ holds it up to the light/ o the burnt smell of the accent i don’t have/ just loose threads/ broken beads/ serpent heads/ copal ashes collect in the corner/ cleansing this studio apartment/ adorned with colorful contraband/ from my country/ overpriced alebrijes on my bookshelf/ exported from the swamp city that birthed me/ palo santo embers in the incense burner/ amber beads in my glove compartment/ god forbid/ anything happen/ as i pass the frida/ & selena mural on sunset & logan/ the mother/ texts to say mija/ let me know/ when you’re home
Laundry
poor suffering
bastards like you, unable to bear the masks
of their own faces
—Mary Karr
I am doing the laundry
of a man who loves
someone else.
I crease his work shirts,
pair his socks.
Yesterday, he threw
my cheap ikea coffee table across
the room. Called me
a cunt. That was a room
I loved him in.
Spit froths from the lip
of the washing machine's grin.
It's a funny thing
shedding tears
for broken furniture.
He throws me a hundred bucks, I
fold into quiet. I've never been good
at picking furniture.
Karla Lamb (she/ella) is a Chicana poet with work in Cobra Milk, Rejected Lit, A Women’s Thing Magazine, Yes Poetry, Coal Hill Review, Fine Print Press, Dream Boy Book Club, & elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology & translated in Revista La Peste. She co-hosts Charla Cultural, a bilingual podcast centering underrepresented literary artists. Find her @vinylowl.