By Bobby Garcia

Razors don’t work on Chicanas
They don’t bleed like you and me
They want to, they try to
But the razor will not comply

She doesn’t hurt like you and me
When she is cut, her blood doesn’t run
It boils, cauterizes the wound
Then gets to work

She welcomes infection
Will die from it
But first
Will make sure you know you cut her
Deeply and unseen

With Chicanas, one thing is always true
Wrong the wrong woman
And find
In her hands
The razor complies with you

 

Bobby Garcia carves his poems out of pieces of his relatively small block of experience. He’s often surprised at the shapes they end up taking, wholly their own and sometimes with legs. He hopes that if you get a chance to read them, they kick.

Screenprint and photo by Marcos Morales.