Two Faiths, Coagulating on an Oilcloth Cover
(Caked With Pork Grease)
The night before su fiesta de los quince,
mi prima Lily placed her palm over her narrow forehead
to disguise her distress. Right before that, su mamá y papá
exchanged air systems vehemently over the exorbitant cost of the party.
I wanted to comfort mi prima querida, but didn’t know how.
Mi Tía Toña, upset by grown-ass adults arguing in her house again,
fondled the ceramic flame on her Ceramic Jesus–
he of red and white draped clay, his stiff body as high as tía’s waist,
a yellow triangle on his crown
that my mother asserted looked more like a rhinoceros horn
than divine light.
My mother could be cocky like that
because Ceramic Jesus was not her deity,
hers was a Jehovah’s Witness one,
and, no, we weren’t supposed to be there,
Los Testigos de Jehovah do not celebrate birthdays,
but when there’s cake, familia and tequila,
es okeiii, El Padre Nuestro can look away.
So long as las chamacas know their place,
show up in a demure, flattering dress–
me in purple goth sparkles, la birthday girl in rosebud-pink lace.
So long as las chamacas smell of Flor de la Virgen,
and stay away from the boy-men–
and grin with molars showing, eat with lips closed,
no more than dos tamales de puerco on our plates.
So long as las chamacas obey, the Garzas can keep their good name.
mi prima Lily placed her palm over her narrow forehead
to disguise her distress. Right before that, su mamá y papá
exchanged air systems vehemently over the exorbitant cost of the party.
I wanted to comfort mi prima querida, but didn’t know how.
Mi Tía Toña, upset by grown-ass adults arguing in her house again,
fondled the ceramic flame on her Ceramic Jesus–
he of red and white draped clay, his stiff body as high as tía’s waist,
a yellow triangle on his crown
that my mother asserted looked more like a rhinoceros horn
than divine light.
My mother could be cocky like that
because Ceramic Jesus was not her deity,
hers was a Jehovah’s Witness one,
and, no, we weren’t supposed to be there,
Los Testigos de Jehovah do not celebrate birthdays,
but when there’s cake, familia and tequila,
es okeiii, El Padre Nuestro can look away.
So long as las chamacas know their place,
show up in a demure, flattering dress–
me in purple goth sparkles, la birthday girl in rosebud-pink lace.
So long as las chamacas smell of Flor de la Virgen,
and stay away from the boy-men–
and grin with molars showing, eat with lips closed,
no more than dos tamales de puerco on our plates.
So long as las chamacas obey, the Garzas can keep their good name.
March 2025
Violeta Garza is a Latinx poet and artist from San Antonio, TX. Her debut poetry chapbook Brava was a semifinalist for the 2023 Nine Syllables Press Chapbook Contest, and will be released in September 2025 by First Matter Press. She never fully trained her tongue to roll her Spanish R's. You can find her on Instagram @violeta.poeta.
Art: Claire Tang, Pushing Up Daisies. Oil on canvas.