THE SUN THE MOON AND THE STARS

The original text is far from my own, Junot Diaz is a Dominican-American writer who I admire very deeply. I've chosen to take a story from his collection <em>This is How You Lose Her</em> in order to formulate a set of poems about my struggle to feel as though I am only one person, as though I am not on and another pushed into one body stretching at it's seams. So, anyway, here's the [[table of contents:->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

THE SUN, THE MOON, AND THE STARS [[PAGE 1->PAGE 1]] [[PAGE 2->PAGE 2]] [[PAGE 3->PAGE 3]] [[PAGE 4->PAGE 4]] [[PAGE 5->PAGE 5]] [[PAGE 6->PAGE 6]] [[PAGE 7->PAGE 7]] [[PAGE 8->PAGE 8]] [[PAGE 9->PAGE 9]] [[PAGE 10->PAGE 10]] [[PAGE 11->PAGE 11]] [[PAGE 12->PAGE 12]] [[PAGE 13->PAGE 13]] [[PAGE 14->PAGE 14]] [[PAGE 15->PAGE 15]] [[PAGE 16->PAGE 16]] [[PAGE 17->PAGE 17]] [[PAGE 18->PAGE 18]] [[PAGE 19->PAGE 19]] [[PAGE 20->PAGE 20]] [[PAGE 21->PAGE 21]] [[PAGE 22->PAGE 22]] [[PAGE 23->PAGE 23]]

//I’m// not a //bad// guy. I know how that sounds— defensive, unscrupulous— but it’s true. I’m like everybody else: weak, full of mistakes, //but basically good.// Magdalena disagrees though. She considers me a typical Dominican man: //a// sucio, an asshole. See, many months ago, when Magda was still my //girl//, when I didn’t have to be careful about //a//lmost everything, I cheated on her with this chick who had tons of eighties //freestyle// hair. Didn’t tell Magda about it, either. You know how it is. //A// smelly bone like that, better off buried in the backyard of your life. Magda only found out because homegirl wrote her a //fucking// letter. And the letter had details. Shit you wouldn’t even tell your boys //drunk.// The thing is, that particular bit of stupidity had been over for months. Me and Magda were on an upswing. We weren’t as distant as we’d been the winter //I// was cheating. The freeze was over. She was coming over to my //place// and instead of us hanging with //my knuckle//head boys— me smoking, her bored out of her skull— we were seeing movies. Driv//in//g out to different places to eat. Even caught a play at the Crossroads and I took her picture with some bigwig black playwrights, pictures where she’s smiling so much you’d think //her// wide- ass //mouth// [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 1]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 2->PAGE 2]]

was going to unhinge. //We were// a couple again. Visiting each other’s //family// on the weekends. //Eating// breakfast at diners hours before anybody else was up, rummaging through the New Brunswick library //together,// the one Carnegie built //with// his guilt money. A nice rhythm we had going. But then the Letter hits like a Star Trek grenade and detonates everything, past, present, future. Suddenly //her folks// want to kill me. It don’t matter that I helped them with //the//ir taxes two //y//ears running or that I mow their lawn. Her father, who used to treat me //like// his hijo, calls me an asshole on //th//e phone, sounds like he’s str//a//ngling himself wi//t//h the cord. You no deserve //I// speak to you in Spanish, he says. I see one of Magda’s girlfriends at the Woodbridge mall— Claribel, the ecuatoriana with the biology degree and the chinita eyes— and she //treat//s me like I ate somebody’s favorite kid. You don’t even want to hear how it went down with Magda. Like a five- train collision. She threw Cassandra’s letter at me— it missed and landed under a Volvo— and then she sat down on the curb and started hyperventilating. Oh, God, she wailed. Oh, my God. This is when my boys claim they would have pulled a Total Fucking Denial. Cassandra who? I was too sick to my stomach even to try. I sat down next to //her//, grabbed her flailing arms, and said some dumb shit like You have to listen to me, Ma//g//da. Or y//o//u w//o//n’t understan//d.// [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 2]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 3->PAGE 3]]

Let me tell you about Magda. //She’s// a Bergenline original: short with a //big mouth// and //big hips// and dark curly hair you could lose a h//and// in. Her father’s a baker, her mother sells kids’ clothes door to door. She might be nobody’s pendeja but she’s also a //forgiving// soul. //A// Catholic. Dragged me into church every //Sunday// for Spanish Mass, and when one of her relatives is //sick,// especially the ones in Cuba, she writes letters to some nuns in Pennsylvania, asks the //sister//s to pray for her family. She’s the nerd every librarian in town knows, a teacher whose students love her. Always cutting //shit// out for me from the newspapers, Dominican shit. I see her like, what, every week, and she still sends me corny little notes in the mail: So you won’t forget me. You couldn’t think of anybody worse to screw than Magda. Anyway I won’t bore you with what happens after //she// finds out. The begging, the crawling over glass, the crying. Let’s just say that after two weeks of th//is//, of my driving out to her house, sending her letters, and calling her at all hours of the night, we put it back together. Didn’t mean I //ever// ate with her famil//y// again or //th//at her girlfriends were celebrat//ing.// Those cabronas, they were like, No, jamás, never. Even Magda wasn’t too hot on the //rapprochement// at first, but I had the //momentum// of the past on my side. When she asked me, //Why don’t you leave me// [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 3]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 4->PAGE 4]]

alone? //I// told her the truth: It’s because I //love// you, mami. I know this sounds like a load of doo- doo, but it’s true: Magda’s my heart. I didn’t want her to leave me; I wasn’t about to start looking for a girlfriend because I’d fucked up one lousy time. Don’t think it was a cakewalk, because it wasn’t. Magda’s stubborn; back when we first started dating, she said she wouldn’t sleep with me until we’d been together at least a month, and homegirl stuck to it, no matter how hard I tried to get into //her knickknacks.// She’s sensitive, too. Takes to hurt the way water takes to paper. You can’t imagine how many times she asked (especially after we finished fucking), Were you ever going to tell me? This and Why? were //her favorite questions.// My favorite answers were Yes and It was a stupid mistake. I wasn’t thinking. We even had some conversation about Cassandra— usually in the dark, when we couldn’t see each other. Magda asked me if I’d loved Cassandra and I told her, No, I didn’t. Do you still think about her? Nope. Did you like fucking //her//? To be //honest//, bab//y//, it was lousy. That one is never very believable but you got to say it anyway //no matter how stupid and unreal// it sounds: say it. And for a while after we got back together everything was as fine as it could be. But only for a little while. Slowly, almost imperceptibly my Magda started turning into another Magda. Who didn’t want to sleep over as much or scratch my back when I asked her to. [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 4]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 5->PAGE 5]]

Amazing what you notice. Like how //she// never used to ask me to call back when she //was// on the line with somebody else. I always had //priority//. Not anymore. So of course I blamed all that shit on her girls, who I knew for a fact were still feeding her a bad line about me. //She was//n’t the only one with counsel. My boys were like, Fuck her, don’t sweat that bitch, but every time I tried I couldn’t pull it off . I was into Magda for //real//. I started working overtime on her again, but nothing seemed to pan out. Every movie we went to, every night drive we took, every time she did sleep over seemed to confirm something negative about me. I felt like I was dying by degrees, but when I brought it up she told me that I was being paranoid. About a month later, //she// started making the sort of changes that would have alarmed a paranoid nigger. //Cut//s her hair, buys better makeup, rocks new clothes, goes out dancing on Friday nights with //her// friends. When I ask her if we can chill, I’m no longer sure it’s a done deal. A lot of the time she Bartlebys me, says, No, I’d rather not. I ask her what the hell she thinks this is and she says, T//ha//t’s what I’m trying to f//i//gu//r//e out. I know what she was doing. Making me aware of my precarious position in her life. Like I was not aware. //The//n it was //June//. Hot white clouds stranded in the sky, cars being was//h//ed down with hos//e//s, music //a//llowed ou//t//side. Everybody getting ready for summer, even us. We’d plann//e//d a trip to S//a//n//t//o Dom//ing//o early in t//he// yea//r//, an anniversary present, and [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 5]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 6->PAGE 6]]

had to decide whether //we// were still going or not. It had been on the horizon awhile, but I figured it was something that would resolve itself. When it didn’t, I brought the tickets out and asked her, How do you feel about it? Like it’s too much of a //commit//ment. Could be worse. It’s a vacation, for Christ’s sake. I see it as //pressure//. Doesn’t have to be pressure. I don’t know why I get stuck on it the way I do. Bringing it up every day, trying to get her //to commit//. Maybe I was getting tired of the situation we were in. Wanted to f//l//ex, wanted something to change. Or maybe I’d gotten this idea in my head that if she said, Yes, we’re going, then shit would be f//i//ne between us. If she said, No, it’s not for me, then at least I’d //k//now that it was over. Her girls, the sorest losers on the plan//e//t, advised her to take the trip and then ne//v//er speak to me again. She, of course, t//o//ld me this shit, because she couldn’t stop herself fro//m// telling me everything she’s thinking. How do you feel about that suggestion? I asked her. She shrugged. //I//t’s an idea. Even my boys were like, Nigger, sounds like you’re wasting a whole lot of loot on some bullshi//t//, but I really thought it would be good for us. //Deep down//, where my boys don’t know me, I’m an optimist. I thought, Me and her on the Island. What couldn’t this cure? [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 6]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 7->PAGE 7]]

Let me confess: //I// love Santo Domingo. I love coming home to the guys in blazers trying to push little cups of Brugal into my hands. Love the plane landing, everybody clapping when the wheels kiss the runway. Love the fact that I’m the only nigger on board without a Cuban link or a //flapjack// of makeup on my face. Love the redhead woman on her way //to// meet the daughter she hasn’t //see//n in eleven years. Th e gifts she holds on her lap, like the bones of a saint. M’ija has tetas now, the woman whispers to her neighbor. Last time I saw //her//, she could barely speak in sentences. Now she’s a woman. Imagínate. I //love// the bags my mother packs, shit for relatives and something for Magda, a gift. You give this to //her// no matter what happens. If this was another kind of story, I’d tell you about the sea. What it looks like after it’s been forced into the sky through a blowhole. How when I’m driving in from the airport and see it like this, like shredded silver, I know I’m back for real. I’d tell you how many poor motherfuckers there are. //More// albinos, //more// cross- eyed niggers, more tígueres than you’ll ever see. And I’d tell you about the traffic: the entire history of late twentieth- century automobiles swarming across every flat stretch of ground, a cosmology of battered cars, battered //motor//cycles, //battered// trucks, and battered buses, and an equal number of repair shops, run by any //fool// with a wrench. I’d tell you [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 7]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 8->PAGE 8]]

about the shanties and our no- running- water faucets and the sambos on the billboards and the fact that my family house comes equipped with an ever- reliable latrine. I’d tell you about my abuelo and his campo hands, how unhappy he is that //I//’m not sticking around, and I’d tell you about the street where I was born, Calle XXI, how it hasn’t decided yet if it //want//s to be a slum or not and how it’s been in this state of indecision for years. But that would make it another kind of story, and I’m having enough trouble as it is with //this// one. You’ll have to //take my word// for it. Santo Domingo is Santo Domingo. Let’s pretend we all know what goes on there. I must have been smoking dust, because //I// thought we were fine those first couple of days. Sure, staying locked up at my abuelo’s house bored Magda to tears, she even said so— I’m bored, Yunior— but I’d //warned her// about the obligatory Visit with //Ab//uelo. I th//ou//gh//t// she wouldn’t mind; she’s normally mad cool with the viej//it//os. But she didn’t say much to him. Just fidgeted in the heat and drank fifteen bottles of water. Point is, we were out of the capital and on a guagua to the interior before the second day had even begun. The landscapes were superfly— even though there was a drought on and the whole campo, even the houses, was covered in that [[CLICK HERE TO READ MY POEM WITHOUT THE ORIGINAL TEXT->POEM 8]] [[CLICK HERE TO READ PAGE 9->PAGE 9]]

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I'm bad but basically good a girl, a freestyle, a fucking drunk. I place my knuckle in her mouth. [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

We were family. Eating together with her folks they like that I treat her good. [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

She's big mouth, big hips and forgiving. A Sunday sick sister shit. She is everything, rapprochement, momentum //Why don't you leave me// [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

I love her knickknacks her favorite questions her honesty no matter how stupid and unreal. [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

She was priority, she was real she cut her hair, the June heat eating her [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

We commit, pressure to commit like vomit deep down. [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

I flapjack to see her love her more, more motor battered fool. [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]

I want this take my word I warned her about it. [[TABLE OF CONTENTS->TABLE OF CONTENTS]]