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Fabiola Aguayo Aug 2020
I feel her stir and stroke her hand.
My plan is to sedate her, gently bait her to sleep,
Just a while longer, to somewhere deep,
Where she can keep to her dreams and in those dreams recede.

The seams of this island
Are too fragile for her agile hands.
When she wakes, she shakes mountains,
And tangles the sky by the locks of her hair.
And sighs of rain—alert, at her thunderous applause—
May as well be daggers for the damage they cause.
We’d barely survived her, so I now lay beside her.
I wrap her in lullabies, so life may thrive despite her.

I feel her stir, and stroke her hand.
There was only ever this feeble plan.
The seas are calm; it’s barely dawn.
I hold my breath and she slumbers on.
This poem was written after Hurricane María  ravaged Puerto Rico in 2017. It denotes my fruitless desperation to control the uncontrollable. It's one of my first.. I hope you enjoy it.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
How can I call myself a Boricua when I
barely know the Spanish for earth and sky,    
have no roots in the soil of Moroves,
no sense of San Juan’s flavors,
the warm Atlantic blowing Arecibo  beach,    
Ponce dancing in the Caribbean’s laughter—  
all memories stolen from postcards hastily
bought at the airport along with a  
tin of Florecitas by my mother returning home.

Those little flowers exploded suns on my tongue
and created colors, formed postcard dreams  
of forts, conquistadors, Taino villages burning
in flames rather than submitting to Spain’s sway.
I craved to be an archeologist reverently
dusting off the bones of my ancestors.
I wanted to be an artist, like my uncle Bob,
splashing faceless heads among yellow flares
devoid of black, red, no tint of sad back story.
I settled for being a poet, a painter of words,
a discoverer of the history of hopes.

There is a memory of the Rambler hitting a cow
on the dirt mountain road leading to Moroves.
The bovine sliding down the embankment,
nonchalantly getting up and going his way.
The Rambler’s front end forever stuck with the
impression of an angry bull welded in the grill.
Another of a drive to a carnival, sitting
in the cab of another station wagon,
stargazing the white half moons rising
from under the red halter of my cousin Anna.
A final one of my grandmother praying
the rosary while I stumbled to the outhouse,
spending the night on the swing under the porch
because I didn’t want to break her silence.

Cows, moons, prayers are my Boricua heritage.
I can’t translate the decimas of a jibaro song,
nor dance a merengue, a bomba,  plena.
I have no desire to eat sugarcane from the  stalk,
nor split the soursop for it sweetness.
I am lost in the winds every Boricua knows.
My memories are blown away in the hurricane.
I seek the solace of the first flight out
after the storm, sad knowing  that
I was not born, like every Boricua,  
from the roots up, to study the light of stars.
Lee Oct 2018
It is sweet like the middle of May
Moldable like Taino clay
Its juices stick to my skin because it knows about sweet tooths
The cravings crash into my body like waves do the sandy shores that harbor its trees
Shake shake shake
Till 10 fall from the tall tree
I try to grab them all but people weren’t meant to hold that much greatness
My small hands grab the biggest and the smallest
Peeling off its green and orange skin
Letting the sweet juices create art on my body
My teeth sink into sweet orange flesh
Reminding my body that this taste goes back for generations
Who knew fruit could time travel
An ode to my favorite fruit
Kiara del Valle Aug 2014
Donde se mete la mano, se mete la pata

Si me acordara,

en que momento me comencé a quemar en el aceite caliente de los errores

creame, usted que me lee

la hubiera sacado

hubiera perdonado

…me hubieran perdonado.

Después que se cometen los errores, todos te lo advirtieron

Te vieron ahogarte y nada hicieron

o tal vez nada quisiste hicieran

Vi el mundo correr

y del macabro orgullo no me pude desprender.

En esto de las erratas, es fácil recaer

y con mi historial, fogatas se pueden hacer

Más que un tropezón, es una profesión

Si hubiera atendido a tiempo la condición

no tuviera porqué excusarme,

todas estas voces serían fetos

y no tendría que intoxicarme de medicamentos

¿He aprendido algo?

Si te me acercas mucho, mucho daño te haré.

Además, he aprendido algo esencial…

Donde se mete la mano, se mete la pata.

— The End —