native new yorker with dominican roots. writer of all things love, life, family, sex, friends and everything in between. a not so secret obsession with stringing along words to form perfect sentences - reflecting what the mouth can't say. 

Bronx Salons.

for years and years i spent my weekends
in fogged up salons
listening to merengue
roll off the tongues of the men on the radio
and onto the hips of the women
who smelled like burnt hair
and defined beauty –
hair so laid
like silk waterfalls down their backs

i watched my blood
laugh and gossip
about fulano y fulana de tal
stories just slipped off their tongues
and through the gap in their front teeth

see, i was surrounded by unapologetic women
with flawlessness running through their veins
eroticism lined on their thighs
sexy painted on their lips
the scent of sensuality followed them
and oh man,
the men kneeled at the door
begging for permission
to step foot in this sanctuary

because before there were bad bitches
there were women dipped in all shades
of café
sprinkled with brown sugar
dipped in dulce de leche
sweetened with caña and
with a hint of picante

before there was dessert


The Magic of Time.