More than one man has reached up my skirt

I’ve stopped asking:

                                                       ¿Why?

             I’ve let a man whistle

                           from the table for more beer,

& brought it to him

                           with a smile. I’ve slapped

a man & ran

                           while he laughed — 

             atrevida.

I’ve had a miscarriage. I’ve let a man

                                       kiss me

after an abortion

                                       & comforted his hot tears.

I’ve done these things,

                                                       while other girls

work in maquilas

                           piecing together

Dell computer boards,

                                       while other girls

work in brothels,

                           & cake foundation across

their bruised arms,

                                       while other girls

                           ride the bus home alone

             at night, every night,

while other girls are found

             wearing clothes

                           that don’t belong to them, or no

clothes at all. I’ve done all of this

                                       while other girls are found

                           with puta

                                       written in blood across

their broken bellies.

             My mother used to cover

my eyes

                           when we’d walk by girls

working the corner,

             & say:

                                       See how lucky you are,

not to have to work

                           like they do? I have been

             muy puta,

                                       have been called puta.

Yes, I’d say, very lucky.