Que Te Haga Daño


Tell me about your childhood, Mendieta. What are some things your mother said? Did you visit Varadero? Have you seen white sands, teal beaches? How the ocean watercolors itself? Nature—he’s an artist, y mi corazón es acuarela. I kid. My heart is a pulsing muscle, tough to eat. Not everything red is edible. Should we tell Eve, or do you think she already knows? I’ve always thought apples are such bland foods, not worth the sin. If you cut a pomegranate and inside you see brown seeds, do you still eat it? I’ll tell you what I did. I popped the seeds into my mouth like candy, little bombs that might explode. Crunched them like popcorn and swallowed; they never touched my tongue. When I got to the bottom,  swamp juices pooled in the basement of the fruit. Moldy atrium collapsing. Conspiring. But nothing happened. It’s like my mother always says, ¿de qué se eche a perder a que te haga daño? Es mejor que te haga daño. How would you, then, answer that question?

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