Rita Maria Martinez

BAD ANIMAL

Los cables,
            as Mami called them,
branched from the sides
            of the belt fastened
at the waist, tapered
            down my narrow girl
hips and thighs,
            travelled the length
of calves and ankles
            finally latching onto
each Frankensteinish
            orthopedic shoe.
Like brushing my teeth
            or watching Mr. Rogers,
wearing the brace
            was a no-brainer.
The exoskeleton
            rarely impeded running,
swinging on Tropical
            Park’s jungle gym,
or playing on my
            Toys “Я” Us swing set.
But, one night, Mami
            decreed I’d also wear
los cables to bed.
            She tucked me in
expecting compliance.
            Silence flooded the
bedroom like in horror flicks
            before bad things go
down—a counterfeit peace
            supervened by
shouting and thrashing,
            arms and legs flailing
in a deranged backstroke
            as I kicked off clown-infested
sheets and trounced Mami’s
            attempts to pin me—
her bad animal—to the mattress
            with the tenacity of an orderly
at Gotham’s Arkham Asylum,
            with the resolve of ruthless
Nurse Ratched at Salem State Hospital.

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