Description
Excerpt
SALADO
In Maracaibo, being unlucky translates
to salty. You are salado, brackish, bad luck
swallows you and spits you out like an ocean
wave. It is never done with you. I am
salty. Mama found an iguana under
the kitchen table this morning. While everyone
was out scaring the green monster away, I
sprayed her French perfume on my hand. It smelled
like her during hugs post-dinners—its fragrance lingers
on her plastic-covered couches. Scent particles flew
into a fan, a brushed nickel-finish apparatus,
and out into her bedroom. I held out my hand
in front of the fan, as if it to stop physics. It chopped
off my fingertip. As my relatives clean the blood spots
from my dress—they’re huddled up around me, on their knees
the iguana they chased off earlier is walking
underneath my bed. I’ll drop something at night,
and when the lights are off, feel
its scales through my bandage.
