Tracy Fernandez

A Black-Eyed Susie Counting to Nine

I.

To sit here, exposed, I know I’ll only be secondary. I could count myself out, but I’ll stay for the recitation—because at 17, I already hold a reputation.

Mira aquí, I should let you know you’re completely loca, they said.

II.

Believe them because they believe in him. It’s simply angelic how they’ll rise in ivy and float above themselves. I asked Abuela twice today, how many have fallen? I counted nine. She won’t answer. It’s too bad that they lived in vain.

III.

At cena, if I stayed quiet, I would learn. Tonight just their presence has made me full.

He loves me not.

IV.

It’s Tuesday, which means Abuela will start on about the girl on Marlow Street. Her name: who knows? Assaulted by the tongue, a nickname better serves the offense.

She has to have a few men, she said.

Without a jury imposed, this is how it always starts.

He loves me.

V.

At the age of 15, I knew it was all a lie. They placed this book in my hands, in all its still weight. This isn’t an average fairy tale story. They told me to keep my palms upright. One day I’ll be swallowed up by the sky. I lied, again. It never felt so good. I think I can still taste the honey on my lips: sweet all in one bite.

He loves me not.

VI.

The topic of choice: the girl on Marlow Street. She’s been a favorite of the year. She walks funny, hopscotching her way home. They tell me not to speak to her. She’s what they call suciedad, and you never want to be called that. This time, I did as I was told.

VII.

She gave it up to him, they said.

I did, too. To be wrapped in his embrace, I’d do it again. I would give him my elbow, my right thigh, my shoulder blade—my whole body. I asked him, What will I receive in return?

The problem with my question, if you couldn’t already tell, is that it is strictly rhetorical.

He loves me.

VIII.

Hands clasped as one. I’ll love him before I’ll ever love myself again. I have been told that to confess myself is to ask for forgiveness.

Forgive me, please.

IX.

Within a skin that sears my touch, I blister. They won’t call 9-1-1, for they believe my price will be paid in breaths of carbon monoxide. That is how one purges a suciedad.

If he does love me, he loves me in a way that I’ve never understood.

X.

He loves me not.