Language & Writing


by Bailey Cohen

ma got them especifically, she said, about the
hojas para tamales, except your Spanish wasn’t
very good so you heard ojos & were terrified,
nightmared eyes peering through small tears
in a pale yellow but nonetheless ate them
like you might two very pretty grapes they filled you

with an immense sadness, but you knew the worst thing you could do
was act as if none of this had happened at all, as if the eyes
hadn’t tumbled down your throat like beans in a rain stick, as if they
hadn’t spluttered in the puddle of your gut, as if you hadn’t wondered
about an enfolding & unfolding of your inside-outs,
as if there was a mother whose giving you were unbeholden to.