by Raquel Salas Rivera
pitorro is what cows use at night to remember day.
god’s wine hangs from balconies to signal it’s safe.
tourists buy towels with parrots,
on their way to my town.
if they even pass through my town.
my town, which is my mother’s town.
we stop by añasco’s post office.
we have a task list.
i still have hair.
they recognize me as sotero’s granddaughter.
we climb the stairs up to a tobaccoed sofa
full of withered flowers as if this were maría.
they bring us coffee and soda crackers.
i listen to unrecognizable names,
and learn these are my blood.
i don’t speak this language,
but they lend me the words.
how is yoli? and school?
my first girlfriend is from a similar town.
we text each other in the bathroom.
i tell her i miss her.
she tells me they’re going to the church retreat.
when i come out, my body molds itself
to certain postural expectations.
morning’s dimensions are tricky,
a word i acquired in california or nebraska.
it means my uncles enter and leave the house,
so i can’t watch tv by myself.
múcaros divide the land amongst cousins.
they fly according to lines drawn in the treaty.
i go into town to buy eggs and on the way
i roll down the front seat window so the humidity
can enter with cold peach light.
i don’t understand what sort of memories i’m supposed to have.
one where i didn’t go with my boyfriend to the movies every friday,
where i didn’t waste time looking at shoes or eating at el mesón?
maybe one where i didn’t lie to my family for years,
faking i was the good daughter,
or one where they don’t tell me it’s ok,
as they step outside to water the plants.
my grandmother’s hand on my chin says qué linda.
with this accomplishment, the fossils rest and i rise.
but i wasn’t asleep, nor good, nor a daughter.
- Share this Poem:
