Angie Cruz-Guzmán

At the Pharmacy Photo Center

the employee asks me to hold a neutral expression. 
Sorry, is it possible not to smile in your photo? 
My siblings hold their laughs between the chip and candy aisle.
My lips press together tightly enough to show dimple. 
A 2x2 image emerges from the associate counter. 
The white backdrop casts a shadow on my facial features. 
Rather than a subtle half-smile, I look slightly bothered. 
We paid for our watermelon sour belts and walked home. 
A letter addressed to me reached the house weeks later: 
Please provide further evidence of U.S. citizenship
through birth certificate or valid, undamaged passport. 
My siblings received blue-jacketed books. American. 
When my passport finally arrived the following month, 
my grandmother’s organs had already begun to fail.

Split Depiction

after Frida Kahlo’s Los Dos Fridas, Oil on Canvas, 1939 

Two women stare longingly–––

their hearts twisted
together 

    can’t you save them both–
you’ve interrupted something 

escape found 
beneath the fabric 

                                                            as death sentence?  
                                                            as carving promise? 

A restrained tongue   

liberarme
                        carving
liberarme        

a weapon
step into the frame 
with bloodied hands  

                                                             /////////////////////////

 Gaze past you

tear the dress 
wedge              between

                                                            liberarme