is looking good
in the white, low-cut
bare-backed dress
she wants
but can’t afford.
She’s been stuck
with me,
a white woman,
in a cardigan.
JFK to Brazil. Nine hours.
I tried not to talk
too much.
Isa didn’t come
on this trip
to make friends.
But she stayed with me.
Taught me
to open my mouth
and round my vowels,
to stop butchering
the beauty out
of the Portuguese.
Taught me
it’s all in the hips,
a lesson I was
incapable of learning.
I’m still all shoulders
and zero rhythm.
Taught me
she’s not American.
She is Puerto Rican.
The one thing
I teach her
is to haggle
for this dress she wants
but can’t afford.
With broken Portuguese
and an open mouth,
I tell the shop owner
that minha amiga
must have this dress.
My friend, she teaches
in New York City.
She’s raising two boys
on her own.
My friend
looks younger, curvier,
and ready
in this dress.
The price drops
eighty reis.
Samba drumming
rolls down the street.
Isa gives into the urge.
Leaves the store,
dress in hand,
following where
the beats lead.
Margaret E. Gillio is a Creative Writing professor at SUNY Finger Lakes Community College, where she directs the creative writing program. She holds an MFA in poetry from Minnesota State University, and a Master’s degree in English Language and Linguistics from the University of Arizona.
