¡Ya! Prepare the barco, Empújalo through the scrub. ‘It’s not much further now,' His voice sugar-coated with expectation: The flap of the jib, the slippery release into El agua negra. Summer sun has baked the avenue of grasses Into wiry nests. ‘Do not open the gate,' he fulminates.
Waiting for the tren to pass The gaze of the pasajero Picks him out against the lights. Wait, cross, check, shut the gate like you kiss A un niño.
She pulls truculentemente against his bodyweight, The smell of greased wheels Mixes with the **** of ducks and burgers.
Canta ella: ‘It’s many the time I’ve sung this song, Though the wind blows like a gale’.
How many more times can he set sail? Before he is buried in the fango And the sea shanty disintegrates Into the Trees?
whispering rain tapping on the window flooding my ears with sound, fluorescent light screaming inside my brain, lift your hands towards me again, you won’t see me de nuevo. Wilt beneath the demanding life you’ve beaten,
and maybe your fear will agitate you, into a comatose state you had put me in.,and hidden me away from the world, mauling innocence out of me with incremental, unwanted touches that cannot be undone.
from handcuffs on wooden poles, foaming mouths pouncing on my skin, melting within myself as you drowned wearisome unhinged fantasies onto me, and use children for your pleasure to continue terrorizing freely while we all trickle.
Abused as a child, here is my testimony about my abuser. Six lines in each stanza, she truly was the devil.
How do you make your rice? is it in a ***? a pan? steamed? heated? not at all?
mine is in a frying ***.
Yellow, with pollo from the fresh market. Peas, y frijoles on the side.
Mix it up, eat it, keep it for later.
Burn the bottom so you can get la chemada part.
If you like the chemada part, not everyone does.
A poem about my personal views on American society. How a bunch of different cultures live together which is why I make references to rice, as different types of rice making shows what culture you come from. I say I like mine in a "frying ***" because that's how I see America, a frying *** and not a "melting ***" as they say. Whereas a melting *** mixes cultures well, a frying *** keeps people at the bottom "burnt" like "chemada" (burnt rice at the bottom of the pan).
Independence is our cry, pride is our name. We are all separated by countries and oceans, but our mindset is one and the same.
The concept of change, we fear; the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us, but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts remains as our threshold away from the darkness.
You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free. Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”
The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!” But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager. You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?
What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted? It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough. It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home. Now you realize this new life will be tough.
You step foot en la tierra libre, the anxiety gets to your bones. Thoughts race through your mind there’s disbelief that this is your new home.
The sensation of wandering on clouds, sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming; your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning
The concept of change we fear; the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us, and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips has become our allure back into the darkness.
But independence is our cry, pride is our name. Precincts may separate us, yet our mindset remains one and the same: ¡Que viva la libertad!
The rooster sings to the sun, answering the call is the light that embraces all. All at once the birds sing their own song.
Awaken by mother's sweet voice. "It's time to go" she says. She hands me a green cubeta con maiz. The corn's color is purple and white instantly I fall in love with its kind The cold blue morning gives me chills. I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house.
With her mandil and her braided hair, she sits by the comal making tortillas. "Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face. "Good morning m'ija" she replies. I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket.
A small room next to a store crowded with senoras. Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand. I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud. I wait in line as I greet and make small talk. These ladies have the nicest smiles.
My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino. My arms are too little. A lady approaches and helps me load the molino. I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa. I bend down and collect it. "En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it. I nod and continue to make it.
Gray like the color of my grandma's hair. soft like my mother's hand. I fill the bucket with the masa. I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa.
I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca. She starts the comal and gets the cal. Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping. Perfect big round warm tortillas. I was a little girl that helped her make them. A little girl that still remembers.