white picket fences & pink glass bottles

i was made from pink glass that were drained of manzana, passed by my prima's lips. we sit on our lacquered front porch steps, enclosed with the white picket fences that housewives dreamed of while 

    they smoked Camels at 3 a.m. with their hair in pincurls. 

we dance to cumbia, a beat i can never truly get the root of, because according to maria-jose, with her straight dark hair and her pan moreno skin, that's what she calls herself, i guess. i'm white as the picket fence, of course i can't get the beat, 

    my wings have not yet spread. & i have not learned to fly above the cemented grids of my town & watch as their picketed lives fade away. but my wings have not spread. the skin beneath my premature feathers itches. 

  but i must wait in my white picketed world, myself, for the very right moment, until then i will press my lips to those smooth spigots of pink-glassed bottles & drink the amber blood of apples.