solo se

November 13, 2011

no hay poema
que pueda expresar
lo que sentí
al verte.

solo se…
que mañana
voy de viaje
en tu corazón.
y tu equipaje se van sin ti,
porque te quedas en mi.

Advertisements

hands

November 9, 2011

i look at my hands
and i see yours.

new lines on them every day
reminding me that time is passing
and our bodies begin to show
the contour lines of life.

i see your face every morning,
as the mirror’s reflection stares:

i am your daughter.

i have your eyes, your smile,
your eyebrows, your nose,
even your long toes.

then i look within…
i am so much of you.
an extension, almost continuation
of all that you are.

there was a time when i disliked
the image… there was a time
i wanted to deny the reflection.

the wonder years can lack so much wonder.

but today…

i am proud to be the daughter
of the strongest woman in the world.
proud to be an extension of a Love
that is infinite. proud to be an offspring
of a spirit that does not give up and a soul
that has never given in.

you have been through so much
and remain faithful.
you have lost everything
and remain thankful.

your words of advice
are unlike any other.

i looked at my hands
this morning… they look exactly like yours for a reason:
to remind me of my own strength.

celebrating her sofrito

November 6, 2011

every day i celebrate you. Mujer Latina!

i celebrate the Latina who matches her chancletas with her belt and her bandana.

i celebrate the taste of sofrito on
your lips. the sazon on your
fingertips. the maizena in your eyes.

i celebrate the yuca
roots of your soul.  the way you make
love in the kitchen and then serve it up in plates filled with ancestral
traditions that got me sucking the marrow outta’ that pollo guisao’ like it was my first home cooked meal after coming
back from a hunger war.

i love the anger in you. the coño carajo in you. the mira,
muchacha er’ diablo no me joda
, i’m pissed as hell right now, in you.

i love the diversity of you. the trigueñita, la negrita, la blanquita, la morenita. la gorda, la flaca
the one with the hips that were made to raise 13 muchachos.  i love the intellectual
you. the nerdy you. the quiet you. the loud you.  the silly you. the serious you. the office
you. the i don’t wanna’ do shit today but lay on the couch, eat platanitos, drink malta and watch novelas in
you.

i love and celebrate your voice. the one that sings while
you clean. the one that can say the perfect words whispered softly al oido.  and just as quickly, stick her head out the
window and yell, “mira condena, you didn’t
call me last night.”

i celebrate the 2.5 hours it takes you to get ready because Mami always said, “no salgas a la calle looking like una loca you never know who might find you.”

i celebrate the nurture in you. that tenderness wrapped in strength
that has been known to tumbar gobiernos,
to heal the bruised and fix the broken.

i celebrate the “tu
belleza,”
that simple sexiness you carry on your hips like an extension of
your heart pulsating to your very walk.

i celebrate your laughter. that contagious carcajada
that can be heard in the next barrio.
that smile that brings light to the darkest of places.

i celebrate la cultura
in you. the music, the food, the lessons you pass on, the love you pass up.
the way you dance with la escoba
while you clean. the way you find ways to keep the island traditions alive on
these palm-tree-less grounds.  the way
you can paint montañas outside the
window panes of cities.

i celebrate the guerrera
in you. the i ain’t giving up ‘cause my abuelita’s
abuela
didn’t and that blood runs through me. the i will not back down. i
will stand my ground. go ‘head and try and push me lest’ you be a pendeja and want to see the wrath of a
thousand generations unleashed on you like the female version of Tito Trinidad.

i celebrate you. the perfect balance of love, anger, and
tenderness.

Usted Mujer Latina… my strength and weakness within.  every thing i am and want.