Barrio no se vende My narrative awaits progression; the ouroboros unable to engulf its own decadent tongue. Quiet. There will be no faces–I mean, fences. Tire’s rubber grips asphalt to halt miraged traffic. We lag beneath–I mean, liquidate. In heat, we watch the convection's sheet scatter across a waxy windshield. A tidal wave dances above double yellow lines. Outstretch our hands to finger-trace overgrown seatbelts. Like giant willow trees, wired around the neighbor’s greenhouse. Yet, we fear the clang to gush the glass above our heads. We feel the sun’s rays, but fear its sight. There will be no hedges–I mean, edges. The inside tender, jawed and boned–we will push quota–I mean, quiet.
La(s) América(s) Sometimes, it is like dictionaries before the word America. Before we feared ‘isms.’ Truism. Tribalism. Totalitarianism. The ink soils lexicon: Guerra Sucia. Weeped willow root stems of arm-torn. Our thorn. God is an American! Footnote 1: God is a citizen of the United States. Mark an X on the brown blotches his cross weighs. Banded blue, red, whiten out the New World, Amerigo. One nation, under God–Footnote 2: Under the equator, our hands off the Bible. Border our lines, a child and Crayola in sharp contour. Other times, we fall in love with soil. With liberty and justice for all. Footnote 3: All north of el Rio Grande, all above the table, all above the poverty line. Outside appliance stores, warm concrete and stench of fresh cement. Flash us swamped colors of midnight. We shine. There are many. Too many of us–Footnote 4: too many unlike us. They sent us to swim; we float.
Hija de la Mía La noticia vino por partida doble. Las mujeres, atraz quintas con verjas, salieron con cambio en bolsilla, esperando el regreso de nuestras. Yo sé donde está mi hija, enterrada entre río mi búsqueda como Abuela de Playa del Mayo, un punto de interrogación trabada en sepulcro. Por inmortales distancias, caminamos no en el cuadro, sino entre desiertos extranjeros a tí, voz alta. Ambladura con la sensación que estás cerca. Cada jueves te veía, nieta mía sin saber tu sangre. Los siete años silenciosos, ya son mi entraña. Casi invisible en tu villa débil, la tercera te encontrará.
Daughter of Mine The news came twice–double-entry. the women, behind iron fences, exit with change in pocket, awaiting return of ours. I know where my daughter is, buried between stream my quest, as Abuela de Playa del Mayo, a question mark inscribed in sepulchre. For immortal distances, we walked not in the quad, if not in between deserts foreign to you, amble with the sentiment that you are near. Every Thursday, I saw you, kin of mine without cut of your blood. The quiet seven years have become my chine. Almost invisible with your fragile shack, the third will find you.
El Norte DESLATINIZAR For the northern wind that did not see, I, dust settled in gravel, sweep, charcoal gust in the taste of sour salt. Re-escribiendo el sueño americano. It creeps, teeters our edges, coexists within us, like breathing– An inheritance. Stake. Subsidy to ancestral breeze.
Querida Abuela, No estoy segura de tu lengua, pero te quisiera hablar. Un dial de dos vías sin tinta negra. Habrá un retraso en la llegada de correos. Amblar a través de la frontera del sobre, Cuestionó si esta carta alcanzará tu puerta. He leído sobre Las Abuelas. Imagino que vos estas entre varios. Si sos más que un nombre, se que nuestra sangre hierve. Por medio de nuestros ojos, te veo luchando. ¿Por qué te quedaste callada por tantos años? He leído, y quien antes te ordeno no pueda más. Ma han dejado a desnatar entre Clarín de 1977, fragmentos de otra época entregado. Labios cerrados y piel alabastro. Habra mas para discutir. Por favor, abue, cuentame. Tu Hija Encontrada
Dear Grandmother, I am unsure of your English, but I wish to speak. A two-way dial without ink inscription. There will be a delay in postage arrival. Ambling across enveloppe border, I question if this will ever reach your door. I have read about Las Abuelas. I imagine you in between districts. If are more than a name, our blood runs at a deep boil. Through our eyes, I can see you fighting. Why were you so quiet for so many years? I have read, and who ever ordered you once no longer can. I am left to skim through Clarín from 1977, like shards of another lifetime handed down to me through tight lips and alabaster skin. There will be more to discuss. Please, grandma, come back to me. Your Found Granddaughter
Perpetuo The sonance, like scratch disks on loop, an afghan above static- struck hair seeps in tidals, mute. An intersect of border lines weave, toss over, under. Hoop. Vanished crosswalk paint, I found your rigid edges. Legend says to never overstep: a leather shoe gapped left of Pompanos railroad. Ledge cliffs swim to an ease fall, a fiery halt sign: slow. Through a hidden box, crammed cotton, mull of ripe propaganda on street cars. Simple souvenirs a shinier metal a fire-struck woman–mighty. Her mind, detached entity string to fist. Torched. EMMA–I hear! Hand me your cradled stack of worn leather. Top side stiff, beneath a silk suede. Perpetuo vacuum of teeming shore. I tried the scribe’s fear from pillow to pen, her calloused forearm. I tired the marble conch shell, heresy in the floor’s whisper. Her extended limbs barrel a zone between refuse kelp sea top, and porcelain brim.
Re: Sonnet after Terrance Hayes We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día. We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día. We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día. We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día. We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día. We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día. We sweep the crumbs with bleach-stained hands all day. Manos manchadas barren todo el día.
Pheasant Run In the summer of 2004, our CD player would jam the third track on Shakira’s Live and Off the Record. In black tulle, I scatter marbles under Ottoman legs, Race to my closet hideout–a tunnel to Mar Del Plata. In the hum of the dehydrator’s night, I fall asleep to the constant bellow–the bullfrogs singing folk. In and out of the crooked wooden fence, I push the monster truck tire for laughs–no, shouts. In tender hands for concrete yard timeouts. In here, In heat, how else mamá found fit. Under the banyan tree, my castle overlooks her. In her office, typing away, phone dial tremble, back hunched. In between my cries, she orders silence, nunca paro. Inside my tunnel, she is still. In time, mamá will wake fully rested; there will be no call. In the summer of 2004, the stereo frequency dulls a trickle of rain.