“you are so much more than your translation …” -Raquel Salas-Rivera
When Trying to Return Home
In the morning, I leave a panaderia on SW 137th
and a Miami browngirl sees my face
and says de donde eres Miami or Not?
And I say Not, because I live in this blue city now
but she means where are your parents from
and I tell her I have a Daddy who is Lou-born
and coal-dark and looks like me and I have a Mami
who is from Puerto Rico and looks like the trigena
in front of us who is buying piraquas for her yellow children.
The browngirl says eres Latina at least, and I say at least
in English. I look down at my skin, which is black, but
smells blue by the shores of Biscayne. She thinks my skin could
speak Spanish, a los menos. I want to tell the browngirl I was not born
by ocean rims or white-scuffed waves. I was not born
beside browngirls who speak Miami’s itchy Spanish. I was born
where my culture rarely bloomed—amongst Northern steel-dust and
dead skies, where my two-colored parents stuck out at any
Pittsburgh party. I want to tell her, I would love to be the type of girl
that says soy de Somewhere and everyone says, “Girl, I see”
or “you’re uno de los nuestros”
or “you belong.”
I want to tell her, you are right, in this blue city, I look like everybody
and everybody looks like me, and this is the thing I’ve always wanted:
to be in a crowd where nobody remembers my skin. I’ve wanted
this when I was a child, amongst grey buildings and steel-dust
where they called me unloved and weird-colored but here, mija,
I smell like blue and people who look like Mami can say funny
things like at least, at least.
Instead, I smile at the browngirl and she does not smile back.
Instead she says, in Spanish: If you are Latina, you should be so,
speak Spanish to me. And I say, in English: Yes, I could
but I am afraid, and she laughs in no language and judges me.
I want to tell her the history of my family-gods. They are rainforest-hot,
cropland-warm, dark with every-colored skin. They have mouths
that sound like all kinds of countries. I want to tell her these gods
live wild and holy in me, in white and blue cities where my skin
is remembered or forgotten, in cities where I am always one thing, or
from anywhere.
I want to tell the browngirl this while she turns and walks off.
I want to tell her that when she came to me, thinking I was hers
in that moment we were together,
at least.
“pero sin trampa/no pasan las gentes/una caracola que te aprieta (vente adentro que hace frio)”- Raquel Salas-Rivera
Trap of the Conch
tonight, josejose is singing about his fat, rich
almohada, about clutching its silken waist,
like it is not a feather-filled thing, but flesh
that knows how to love him smooth.
he is weep-crooning
about the kind of trampa love that
strikes up unresolvable longing, that snails
under the shells we build for safety.
(Por mas que se busque, por mas que se esconda)
you, querido
how warm is your ocean
conch, that you fill with pillows of new happiness?
cálido, right?
you don’t know how to see snow;
it is only white where
I was raised.
(you know this about me,
but you saw my cold bemba before
my past)
what do you regret?
not when you sleep on a pillow, inhabited by the heads of
all-colored scalps, or when you comb lush
rivermanes with your teeth, or when
you sex soft minds
what do you regret
when you sleep alone?
like me
do you count the bodies
we’ve worn like skin over our brown flesh,
to hide our fear of real spirit accidently
spilling forth
(A veces te miro callada y ausente
y sufro en silencio como tanta gente)
I am too tired to be lonely, but
I have all the strength to sleep in
a wound.
(A veces regreso borracho de angustia)
Someday
I want to know about the scars you peeled off, who
was sewn back on.
with this lucky life before you, tell me
do your stitches look good in the light?
if your days were sick and spotty would
you see those marks on your skin
as signs of ugliness?
how have you slept?
who do you regret?
As for me, before I lie down
under my shell of anger and
future
I always fear
you
and the possibility of
tenderness.
When Trying to Return Home
In the morning, I leave a panaderia on SW 137th
and a Miami browngirl sees my face
and says de donde eres Miami or Not?
And I say Not, because I live in this blue city now
but she means where are your parents from
and I tell her I have a Daddy who is Lou-born
and coal-dark and looks like me and I have a Mami
who is from Puerto Rico and looks like the trigena
in front of us who is buying piraquas for her yellow children.
The browngirl says eres Latina at least, and I say at least
in English. I look down at my skin, which is black, but
smells blue by the shores of Biscayne. She thinks my skin could
speak Spanish, a los menos. I want to tell the browngirl I was not born
by ocean rims or white-scuffed waves. I was not born
beside browngirls who speak Miami’s itchy Spanish. I was born
where my culture rarely bloomed—amongst Northern steel-dust and
dead skies, where my two-colored parents stuck out at any
Pittsburgh party. I want to tell her, I would love to be the type of girl
that says soy de Somewhere and everyone says, “Girl, I see”
or “you’re uno de los nuestros”
or “you belong.”
I want to tell her, you are right, in this blue city, I look like everybody
and everybody looks like me, and this is the thing I’ve always wanted:
to be in a crowd where nobody remembers my skin. I’ve wanted
this when I was a child, amongst grey buildings and steel-dust
where they called me unloved and weird-colored but here, mija,
I smell like blue and people who look like Mami can say funny
things like at least, at least.
Instead, I smile at the browngirl and she does not smile back.
Instead she says, in Spanish: If you are Latina, you should be so,
speak Spanish to me. And I say, in English: Yes, I could
but I am afraid, and she laughs in no language and judges me.
I want to tell her the history of my family-gods. They are rainforest-hot,
cropland-warm, dark with every-colored skin. They have mouths
that sound like all kinds of countries. I want to tell her these gods
live wild and holy in me, in white and blue cities where my skin
is remembered or forgotten, in cities where I am always one thing, or
from anywhere.
I want to tell the browngirl this while she turns and walks off.
I want to tell her that when she came to me, thinking I was hers
in that moment we were together,
at least.
“pero sin trampa/no pasan las gentes/una caracola que te aprieta (vente adentro que hace frio)”- Raquel Salas-Rivera
Trap of the Conch
tonight, josejose is singing about his fat, rich
almohada, about clutching its silken waist,
like it is not a feather-filled thing, but flesh
that knows how to love him smooth.
he is weep-crooning
about the kind of trampa love that
strikes up unresolvable longing, that snails
under the shells we build for safety.
(Por mas que se busque, por mas que se esconda)
you, querido
how warm is your ocean
conch, that you fill with pillows of new happiness?
cálido, right?
you don’t know how to see snow;
it is only white where
I was raised.
(you know this about me,
but you saw my cold bemba before
my past)
what do you regret?
not when you sleep on a pillow, inhabited by the heads of
all-colored scalps, or when you comb lush
rivermanes with your teeth, or when
you sex soft minds
what do you regret
when you sleep alone?
like me
do you count the bodies
we’ve worn like skin over our brown flesh,
to hide our fear of real spirit accidently
spilling forth
(A veces te miro callada y ausente
y sufro en silencio como tanta gente)
I am too tired to be lonely, but
I have all the strength to sleep in
a wound.
(A veces regreso borracho de angustia)
Someday
I want to know about the scars you peeled off, who
was sewn back on.
with this lucky life before you, tell me
do your stitches look good in the light?
if your days were sick and spotty would
you see those marks on your skin
as signs of ugliness?
how have you slept?
who do you regret?
As for me, before I lie down
under my shell of anger and
future
I always fear
you
and the possibility of
tenderness.