Jan/Feb 2016 • Vol. XXXVIII No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 2016 |

Mi Amor, Mi China, Mi Delirio

1 Chicago, city of crabgrass and gleaming lakeshore, listen. Yanet was a bride when she first saw you, with a craving for babies like a craving for a smoke. She loved your margins, those peripheral neighborhoods where botánicas hid like spider webs in corners. How many times she passed and thought of a trabajito, a red candle for Santa Barbara (patron saint of the disenchanted), or a cigar for Changó (Yoruban and now Cuban god of revenge), and of course the foreign incantations that would vanish you for a moment like the fog that sometimes engulfed downtown completely. She loved your Aztec virgins, the ones who paraded up and down Western Avenue in red dresses so tight she could see every ripple on their thighs. She loved your seedy jazz clubs and the old foreign women no one bothered to stop and listen to. But let's be honest with each other. Your men, your know-it-all armchair quarterbacks, were fifth-string, no-string men. One, she knew, forbade his wife from singing

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Leslie Blanco has been a resident of Blue Mountain Center and Centrum Center for the Arts. She has an MFA from Warren Wilson College. She lives in Southern California with one husband, two dogs, and triplet daughters. When said triplets are finally old enough for school, she hopes to continue work on An Epidemic of Lust, a novel based on the “unofficial” history of the Cuban Revolution of 1959.

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1 Chicago, city of crabgrass and gleaming lakeshore, listen. Yanet was a bride when she first saw you, with a craving for babies like a craving for a smoke. She […]

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