in parentheses

M. Ocampo McIvor was born in the Philippines, raised in Toronto, Canada, and currently calls both Toronto and Seattle home. Her work has been featured in The Bangalore Review, Pine Row Press, Burningword Literary, and others. She is the author of Ugly Things We Hide and Who Knows You Best.

M. Ocampo McIvor has been previously featured by In Parentheses.

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Clipping Coupons

My mother sifts through junk
mail and fishes out the flyers.
Digging for gold, she says.

Look here, Marie:
savings on eggs, milk, bread,
Frosted Flakes,
flavored juice,
the canned and frozen kind.
We’ll get three of those,
they last forever and have added
Vitamin C.
Savings on beef and chicken—
we’ll eat like kings for weeks!
Toilet paper, paper towels…
wait, no. Just grab some napkins from
McDonald’s.

We need fruits and vegetables—
potatoes, bananas, broccoli.
But wait til closing hour,
they’ll give the riper ones
for free.

Speak clearly,
speak politely,
in proper English, mind,
and don’t ask for much!
We ain’t beggars, child.

Next week is rent—
check, do we have enough?
Lord, not nearly enough to pay
for internet.

Too-Tight Shoes

They look like the real thing—
a slight misspelling on the brand
you can hardly tell it’s a
fake.
The trendiest style last year and still
popular
with sixth-graders.

I should have gotten the pair
that was two sizes too big
not just one, like my mother warned.
The only pair I would own til next year,
my mother warned;
she won’t be buying me another.
But I wanted them, and they fit me fine
with a little wiggle room, even.

That was last summer.
It’s now spring
and my toes have curled and sprouted corns
while my feet were freezing during winter.
Hard callouses have formed over throbbing
blisters.

That Latina girl, Juana, she gets a new pair
only once every two years, my mother said.
And that Black foster kid only gets
hand-me-downs.
Did you know that? my mother said.
I’m spoiled, so spoiled, so spoiled,
she told me—
I don’t know how good I have it.

But I do. Yes, I do.

That’s why I don’t complain about the
headaches. About the pain
that starts from the ground and shoots
upward above my knees.
Or the toe-punched holes I try to
hide.
I’ve glued on the flapping soles
too many times and colored in the
worn parts
so they look halfway decent,
so I’d feel halfway decent.
Though I’m embarrassed about the
rotten
    rancid
        cabbage stench and
    shame
reeking from my feet.

Yes, I know how good I have it
that’s why I don’t

complain.

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