Eva Alcaraz-Monje (Eh-vah Alka-razz Mon-he) is a graduate of the SCAPA Literary Arts program at Lafayette High School. Recently finding a true love for poetry, Eva’s work is inspired by anything seen, heard, or experienced and can be found on coffee shop bags and college interview folders. Outside of poetry, Eva co-edits the Lafayette Times, volunteers at the Northside library, and walks aimlessly around downtown Lexington.

Appalachia is Contagious

I’ve begun to light cigarettes at noon, 
watching the smoke bend across 
conifers that reek of corn syrup. 

I “bless your heart”
to those I do not love
because they know
I don’t. 

My neck bears a cross
that I don’t believe in, 
tarnished iron with a simple 
remembrance of God 
and someone with Him. 

I down Ale 8 like honey nectar,
sugar caking the gas station
t-shirt I found on the rack 
for spare change. 

A knife is secured in my back pocket
with loose denim thread and an urge
to flick it open like swings 
on a midnight playground. 

Watch me drive on roads 
that don’t want to be paved, bumping
some heathen music alongside
the cows and the horses and
the buzzards. 

My soul aches
for coleslaw and grits and potato salad
because this is “y’all are family” love, 
and I am tired of denying it.

“Dang, this is like something out of a movie”

Onyx pools at our feet, feeding 
the rubies and diamonds and emeralds 
lining the coast, blinking to show they are
breathing too. 

We scream at the night to a girl
I don’t know, and we pray that our
“Happy Birthday”  
travels to Cuba with a Saran-wrapped suitcase,

and we suck in the hot air 
like rabid dogs because we know 
it’s going to be gone pretty soon.

I don’t know you very well but

give me a hug just for 

tonight, we are invincible 
as long as we empty our souls
in the sand doodles. 

Shoulder to shoulder, soldiers to 
the war that is leaving the parking lot. 

Sitting on the seafoam
floor with our hands grasped tight 
so y’all

don’t float out of my memory

is fun. Want to try?

Milanesa

“Milanesa, noun, a thin slice of beef, dipped into beaten eggs, seasoned with salt and other condiments, dipped in breadcrumbs and shallow-fried in oil.”

1. Breadcrumbs in the pan,
   ones that used to be
   crushed by your mother’s hands.
   Day old stale bread bought
   on the panaderia
   on the corner
   with your childish fingers
   in her wrought ones
   that begged for sweetened layers
   and rotted your teeth dark
   brown, like you.
2. Egg wash in the other,
   (you always said
   keep it second and separate)
   spiced with the pap-rrrik-ah
   bought on the corner
   of the strip mall,
   where our tongue congregates
   in a sea of sale stickers.
3. Thin sliced meat, whatever you’d like,
   we’re not picky,
   just whatever can be found.
   If you’re smart like us,
   knead a thick slab
   with a harsh and gentle
   awakening
   for maximum outcome.
4. Now dip,
   watch it ebb and flow
   from dry to wet.
   Dip into each part of you,
   the one that exists
   on the dusty cobblestone
   and in the boisterous laughter
   and around the swirling mountains
   and outside of here.
5. Heat the skillet.
   Yes, the electric will work just fine.
   Do you hear the sizzle,
   the thumping speakers
   that spill striking accordions?
   Pour the oil generously,
   let it tumble out
   like the drawn out melodies.
6. Let it sit and fry
   till the color of your eyes
   shine through,
   dark honey and hazel
   like our roots beckoned.
   Never let
   the jet black strands
   shine through,
   or else a pile of ash
   will spew off the griddle.
7. Pick it out.
   Drag it into a new country
   a new home,
   a new life,
   a new name.
   Aim to be gentle,
   but if it’s a little sudden,
   it’s alright,
   you both were taught to prosper
   on the hard white
   porcelain platter.
8. Grab the knife,
   serrated edges
   with the mahogany base
   we stole from Abuela.
   She hasn’t noticed yet.
   Maybe the one with the square blade,
   the one you crafted
   just like your father,
   woodworker on the side.
   You look like him you know,
   same long sad face
   of a stubborn life.
9. Cut deep,
   listen to the flesh tear.
   We are rabid animals;
   when the tender meat
   falls onto our plates,
   we must hold back
   our ancestral urges.
10. Squeeze the lemon,
    cut with the same knife,
    a blossom of the quince tree
    or the ciruelo
    in Tia’s backyard
    that refuses to die
    in the whirlwinds
    of this unpredictable life.
11. Consume whole,
    lick your lips,
    let your thick smile
    crawl onto your face.
    Do you want some more?