Brenda Cárdenas

                   Mother, Father / there's no passing the cup.
                   I'm going to be a troublemaker / when I grow up.
                                      --Demetria Martínez

Me and my cuz,
the toughest chicks on the south side strip,
we roar up and down the avenue
in her brother's midnight-blue Baracuda,
with the tiny paint flecks that flicker in the sun,
chrome sparkling and Santana blaring from the Boze,
Dylan embroidered into the seatbelts
with rainbow floss—Tangled Up in Blue.

Me and my cuz,
we hang in the park all afternoon,
strut past boys with our long manes flowing,
our faded jeans snug and patched
to match our hips' swing to the right and left.
We dare them to call us over for a little cervezita.

Me and my cuz,
we cruise past Tio's bar on Saturday afternoons
to perch on the spinning stools
and sip soda while he washes glasses
and mops the sticky floors.

His voice deepens when he begins
Lesson Numero Uno:
"Pretty soon you girls will be old enough
to come into taverns like this,
y escúchame bien,
don't you ever let me catch you
take your change off the bar.
Snap up your dollar bills,
pero dejen las monedas.
We bartenders got to make a living too."

Then he instructs us on backdoor escapes
from slimy pendejos
and fifty ways to leave los cabrones
"who just sit on these stools every night
guzzling Budweiser and waiting
patiently to pay you pretty little compliments
that turn into babies y chingazos,
pots, pans y muchas lágrimas."

Me and my cuz
we got it down, Lesson Numero Uno:
bars, boys and blue baracudas
for the rest of our lives.