Trista Mateer, "Baggage", from Honeybee
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Sandra Cisneros, ‘Bien Pretty’ from Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories
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What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three and two and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.
I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see.
sandra cisneros; eleven
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Beautiful, you said. You said I was beautiful, and when you said it, I was.
Sandra Cisneros, from Woman at Hollering Creek: Stories; “Never Marry a Mexican”
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Something of you still taut
still tugs still pulls,
a rope that trembled
hummed between us.
Hummed, love, didn’t it.
Love, how it hummed.
Sandra Cisneros, excerpt of “Vino Tinto”, in Loose Woman
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I dreamt you, and when I awoke I was sure your spirit had just fluttered from the room. I have yanked you from your sleep before--into the dream I was dreaming. Twisted you like a spiral of hair around a finger. Love, you arrived with your heart full of birds.
Sandra Cisneros, from “Eyes of Zapata,” Daughters of the Fifth Sun: A Collection of Latina Fiction and Poetry, eds. Bryce Milligan, Mary Guerrero Milligan, and Angela de Hoya (Riverhead Books, 1995)
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Richard Siken / Anne Sexton
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Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry
Sandra Cisneros, A House of My Own
Tennessee Williams, The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore
Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell
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Beautiful, you said. You said I was beautiful, and when you said it, I was.
Sandra Cisneros
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There’s a poem in my head
like too many cups of coffee.
A pea under twenty eiderdowns.
A sadness in my heart like stone.
A telephone. And always my
night madness that outs like bats
across this Texas sky.
— Sandra Cisneros, from “Night Madness Poem,” in Loose Woman
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Beautiful, you said. You said I was beautiful, and when you said it, I was.
Sandra Cisneros, from Woman at Hollering Creek: Stories; “Never Marry a Mexican”
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One Last Poem For Richard by Sandra Cisneros
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Sandra Cisneros, from "Dulzura"
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Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody's garbage to pick up after.
Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.
— Sandra Cisneros, House of My Own, from The House on Mango Street
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