There’s No Such Thing as a Bronx Accent Gentle Ramirez
My mom speaks with a bullet in her throat.
That means we from nowhere else but the Bronx.
From this hood we can’t teach anyone who not from where we from what we know how to do and the way we do it.
The way we swallow swords down our throats for breakfast That with a knife down our spine we cook dinner and know how to do it with sazón, sofrito, and a smile.
How tired be more familiar than The Good Lord himself. My mom, in this master of a marriage, keeps her mouth shut— Waiting for things to get better the same way she’s waiting on Christ to return, yes—Men speak two languages, English and over
Women
My mom waits too long for a man that takes too long to die, And ain’t that everything and a shame.
That men don’t have to like you, but they have to need you.
That god-fearing-husband-fearing women don’t get divorced, because all the church walls would grow teeth and the
ministers would throw stones. Dare a woman dare respect. Aint that everything and sad, that women
get to live their lives after their husband loses his. So, what do we do with all this exploited freedom? Have you finally understood the irony? Of all these screams that will go unheard, of all the crying drowned in a sheet of salt—
the bullets falling like cadence—to the pulse of a slammed door.
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