I walk outside and begin to set up the flimsy $5 hamaca [1] I had bought at Five Below the day before. Nothing like Abuelita’s [2], but the gears of my memory are rusted and worn. So, the Great Value version will do just fine. It smells awful out here, too, with those trees. What are they called again? Callery Pears! How can something be so pretty and yet so disgusting at the same time? Ew, but I need this. I just need a break. After making about fifteen relatively unsecure knots on either side of the synthetic rope, I begin to sit in my hamaca, but as I lie back, I hesitate. I feel like I’ll lose my balance, insecure: my constant state of being as of late. But however rusted, my gears still turn. I lean back into the cotton cocoon. I need to trust myself.
Finally,
In this moment
I’ve transcended.
All state of being,
I simply am.
Not
Anchor baby,
Wetback,
Mojada.
Not
Poor,
Tired,
Struggling.
I am
Bliss,
Serenity,
Tranquility.
Nothing.
Sweet, soft, golden mango
Turned juicy mush
In the clenched grasp
Of quaint, grubby
Brown toddler hands
I am ripe fruit
Reaped.
On this cosmic plane
Of hamacas
And smelly ass
White flower trees.
[1] Eng. “hammock.”
[2] Eng. “Grandma’s.”