East Side LV
My country is you.
My nationality is you.

Calles tostadas por el sol,
con palos verdes de flores amarillas.

Folks coming out to walk after 7 p.m. ‘cause of the heat —
elotero tricycle (and golf carts),
mangoneada con mucho chamoy,
trails with broken light posts.

My nationality is you.
Taquería on every corner,
señora selling sunflowers en la esquina,
countless Brown entrepreneurs.

Accent thick as atole, or thin as mezcal —
home away from home, but home nonetheless.

A Yeti trapped in the desert,
front yard nopales, roses, and Guadalupes.
Trunk tamales.

Pick-up trucks, college degrees,
aspirational wealth,
a proudly stubborn Spanish,
unwilling to leave our tongues —
and if they cut our tongues,
we will still dream in Spanish.

My nationality is you.
Mariachi singing the national anthem,
horse-riding vaqueros,
soccer-playing muchachas.

Botánica in the middle of the swap meet,
sacred drummings on scorching hot weekends,
birria Sundays,
underground rivers.

Working class,
rich in culture,
color,
envy of many.

East Side LV —
My country is you.
My nationality is you.
Not sure if you realized it by now,
but this is a love poem to you, East Side LV.

Un columpio
de mi patio hasta San Juan,
para que, cada que quieras,
puedas ir a visitar:
la brisa del mar,
el café de abuela.
Tus greñitas llenas de arena y de sal,
unos tostones,
un sándwich con pan sobao,
un café Yauco…
un mofongo los gorditos.

Una llamada cada semana
que se vuelva presencial en Caguas,
un vuelo directo, sin escala,
y quedarnos meses aquí,
con una serenata de coquís.

Una máquina del tiempo —
para salvar a aquel niño,
unos tostones de pana,
unlimited bacalaito.\

Una isla independiente,
un gobierno incorruptible,
una casa con cimientos fuertes,
una luna de ámbar que nos alumbre.

Dos tripletas,
tres cocas de dieta,
cinco dulces de guayaba,
y una piña colada…

Un columpio gigante que te lleve
de nuestro patio a San Juan…

I wrote a letter when I was undocumented,
Became a large brick wall filled with nails and empty voids,
Degrees, certificates, notebooks, notes, random *** poems, receipts, papers, papers, papers,
Overcompensating for my lack of status.

I hid under Las Vegas’ scolding sun while wanting to be seen,
Always missing the Aguascalientes’ springs,
When you didn’t need AC.

Sometimes I still wonder what happened to my elementary and middle school friends,
The ones I couldn’t say good bye to,
Because we left so sudden,
Grandma and I.

Randomly aftewards…

I wrote a letter to my future self:
“Whatever you end up, remember you are an educator…”
I inherited my teaching spirit from my mother,
I imagined that words one day would set us free;
They didn’t,
But they sure helped,
Helped a lot,
Especially them three words “United States Citizen”.

A former friend of mine once prophesied that 10 years after the Obama administration
Folks would realize the harm they’ve done to innocent people, immigrants.
It’s been more than ten years,
I want my money back.

I stopped worrying about Ice Cream trucks once they stopped selling chocolate tacos, I prefer the raspado man.

A shadow we become in the midst of promise and peril.
A tingling voice fed by the imaginary monster of hope of prosperity.

They sell us a dream from which constant rude and lethargic awakenings auction us to the highest bidder.

We are political bargaining chips, fillers, collateral, surplussed aims and aspirations.

We are worth our blood but never true citizenship, but what does citizenship mean when our siblings are murdered with no consequence?

Quick some of us are to fantasize about trading fences and walls for humanity.
Ignoring that the very potion that will hold those borders together is our flesh, and the dreams of our children.

I always hoped for more out of this narrative, some sort of comedic relief or an alternative ending. But I’m just sitting here in this never ending opera with horrible singing and beer.

II.

Aquí, behind this rock I call my safe voice I stay rooting for you, I just don’t have it in me, the more crumbs we get, the closer we are to the cake, but if you get the bakery, I promise you I’ll be your cashier, plus I love cheesecake.

Waiting games... I don’t recall the last time you looked at me. Can you stamp me please?
Something within me still longs to be free and I don’t know what to do.

Fear of repatriation, when there’s really no country for you, you nationless, culturally ambiguous neoliberal residue.

One day they will ask me to speak, I will walk slowly towards the podium as people await to hear what I have to say, they imagine I’ll sing an anthology of resilience, but instead I’ll just say “ya pa’ que!”.

Sus manos tejian poesia, como torteaba, como cosia, como ella hacia para que el chile se convirtiera en su sinfonia, como ella asaba chiles serranos, como sus manos tejian poesia...

Literacy
“Please don’t tell anyone
My husband beats me…
I am undocumented, I don’t speak English…
And my child, el pobrecito thinks he’s the only one who can defend me
He thinks he’s the man of the house…”

His eyes get lost on the spotless white wall,
Thinking if his dad got home…
Yelling in that cursed language his mom can’t understand,
Language becomes a violent beast coming out of his dad’s mouth.

A monster that smells like alcohol and burnt tires,
Feels like broken glass, blood… and fear,
And he ain’t there to stop it.

What if his mom is calling him for help… in Spanish?
And he’s there instead,
Encased amongst all this English and them four pristine white walls,
“What are these letters good for if they won’t save my mom…” he thinks.

A teacher tells him
That he should learn how to read in English…
He then could teach his mom,
And one day she could defend herself from the beast.

He devours below-his-grade-level books.
Each letter: a weapon.
Each word: a shield.

And he begins to believe that through knowledge he could save her.
Every time he writes a word
He imagines himself as a victorious warrior,

The beast is tamed,
And his mom will one day be safe.

Yesterday he smuggled words inside his old torn backpack,
Stole a fruit cup and the entire alphabet, took them home.
“Here ama, this is for you!
One day you’ll talk so much English you’ll be free.”

Anoche te encontré
Flor de selva encabronada
Lengua libre y encontrada
Antiguo amor

Antenoche te encontré
Piedra de montaña verde
Amuleto de mi suerte
Antiguo amor

Ayer te vi
De reojo entre mis brazos
Escuchando la poesía de tus abrazos
En tu regazo amanecí
Antiguo amor

Amor dulce
Lento, perezoso, poseído,
Amor de viejos
Amor que triunfo después de ser vencido
Amor de esos que no mueren y se quedan ahí
Como humedad en la pared
Antiguo amor

Amor suave,
Te de arándanos y hierbas dulces
Mirada onda y media pérdida entre sus luces
Dulce poesía color azul
En todo su esplendor
Antiguo amor