Language No Correcto

by Luis Lopez-Maldonado

I sat for an hour looking into the white of the page trying to think of how these brown hands used fingers could penetrate hard enough to write a poem, but no similes no metaphors no rhyme cums out of me nothing worthy enough to get published by the privileged by the reputable by the crème of the crop, but still my fingerprints tap keys to connect rape facts with justice fees the story of when my mother lost all her teeth of when the priest got me on my knees for more than just a prayer or two, and the clock circles and the coffee burns and the whiteness glows like glitter like highlighter like phosphorous and these large brown eyes can’t see past the no’s past the wall past the spellcheck on Word telling me my Spanish is not correct.