to ensure that I stood out in the streets, an orange
hanging from banana-tree branches. Gringa, gringa! White girl.
Blonde girl. Eyes-that-are-not-brown girl.
girl. 20-years-old-but-no-tiene-hijas girl. But
in the immediate world outside this tub, I’m
girl. So why don’t you just go back there,
Girl? My shower curtain is a map of the world-
a puzzle of colored land-chunks that I visit
as I lather. With soapy hands I can crinkle the oceans,
turn continents to neighbors. Orange next to yellow;
blue right there with green. When South America
meets our East Coast, I’ll dry my hair and walk on over.
But I’ll have to sew the soapy slickness because as soon as I let go,
the crinkly plastic hangs, heavy with the weight
of continents and water, and the countries fall back into place.
And I don’t want to be