pendeja.
by Mars Robinson​

Runestone, volume 9

pendeja.

Could you pass me the salt

The sazon, the sofrito, the adobo

Could you pass me the paprika, the lemon pepper

Could you pass me the hot sauce

Could you pass me fried food, rice, and tabled meals

Could you pass me an umbrella so my skin doesn’t get darker

Could you pass me nail polish remover so they don’t stay chipped

Could you pass me sturdy bras and loose tops

Could you pass me the hair straightener

Could you pass me the phone

Nena, pass me the phone

Could you pass me the remote

Could you pass me a chancleta so I can get at these kids

Could you pass me the hurricane breeze, the heart squeeze

Could you pass me boys with mustaches

With hands gripping on buttered thighs

Could you pass me the grease

Could you pass me the gel

Not that gel, the other gel, you know

Could you pass me baby hair and thin brows

Could you pass me gold hoops and hooded eye winks

Could you pass me avocado and tuna on seaweed

Could you pass me mispronunciations and bad spellings

Could you pass me missing clothes and drunken misgivings 

Could you pass me chicken and lemonade

Could you pass me summer nights and boys with fades

Could you pass me the bass

Could you pass me the rhythm

Could you pass me the jazz

Could you pass me Billie Holiday on vinyl 

Could you pass me Madonna on tape

Could you pass me that ringtone your ex-man had

We’d dance right before he would leave you at home

Could you pass me sweat drying on skin

Could you pass me love bugs on your arm

Could you pass me swamp fog mornings

Could you pass me foreign idols with scraped knees

Could you pass me promise rings and necklaces we don’t wear

Could you pass me your Boricua and hold onto my nappy hair

Could you pass me your capital, pass me your star

so I hold them close and never let them go