Broken

Malcriada
I rest my loneliness
on your sky
Sé que estás congelada con él
y en tu boca bilingual 
estruja las estructuras grises 
en las calles Neoyorquinas
Tú que hablas con las palabras 
cortadas por la mitad 
hidden behind a language 
that’s still sounds malévola 
and you managed to climb 
those green trees 
bringing 
el trópico travieso 
azúcar del Sur
la menta en fundita
hasta aquí 
y me importa un cero 
que tus garabatos de la 
mente 
corran 
Si es que tú, 
mal habla’ mía 
me traes mi suelo
to this country that 
would never be home.

Mujer con Voz ©2016

 

 

 

 


photo credit

Weird

  

Tía abuela soy yo de la algarabía
Mis labios quemados de rojo andan
La mecedora moviendo su falda corta
Pasan la gente curiosa
Gente mordiendo los lunares imaginarios ¿Sabías tú?
Si.
El dulce de coco lo invente yo
No…
El bombón melancólico de cerezas
“La mami conditioner” en botella pobre
Tú deja de cortarme los ojos

Envious


Evil



Envidiosa
Mala sangre
Amargada
Te dije que soy nieta de las habichuelas
Siéntate en un volcán
Saborea mi sazón
de llamas de plumas
Estoy embriagada de tierra
por dentro y por fuera
Aveces rimo
De vez en cuando le quitó las cadenas
No me digas que no soy poeta
Te traeré un poco de caldo de nubes
a ver si te pasa la quemadera
y me dejes vivir adentro de un mango prendio’
como soy;
Rara
problemática
y rellena de agua dramática
y miel de abeja.

Jamaica Avenue 

 

Photo by José Silva

“The bus left me this morning. It was damn cold. Don’t be. Don’t be fooled by this tin light you see across Jamaica Avenue. I am burning inside, I have the Dominican sun inside me. I survived. I don’t know. No me pregunten. ¡Que se yo! I don’t really know, how can one adapt? How can you pretend you don’t miss a single thing? Your hands are cold, freezing, hard-heartless-cold winter got me this time. I am lying, not only this time… multiple times. There, while waiting for the Q56. In front of everyone, it did not cared a bit. My twelve year old self was desperated. You would be too, if someone would take you away from the bright sun that burns your body while bringing happiness under a tranquil wooden house in the campo. It has mutilado lo que soy, ahora. I told you I was not lying, I was honest from the beginning. I, myself, no longer wait for the MTA to sent me the bus to go somewhere. I persist fighting against a winter that I did not give birth to, holding it like a child, even if it cries and pulled my brown hair, I still have patience to give him love. But this bus, the one I am waiting on, I don’t want to take me anywhere. I want to just go home. I hope, I really hope, with all my mixed heart that the driver have a pilot license, home is far–not here.” —La niña diaspora
F.P.

Don’t Date Women with Stretch Marks

Don’t date women with stretch marks.
Do yourself a favor… and run.
¡Corre! ¡Corre! Run far
away from them, like
you’re in a marathon to
a black hole, you’re not
going back to Earth.
Ellas son la Tierra,
swallowing your memory,all
up to the moment
you see her.
They know how to
use their white lines
against you.
They know what it’s
like to be stretched
all the way… into a poem
pull all the way back
like Afro-Caribbean hair,
pull back like a metáfora
and still be glorious
and still be alive
having a permanent mark
on you.
You would be missing…
under her curvy smile,
you, will be
like an empty black
and gray wall
in lower Manhathan
on a lower backstreet
finally…
finally…
full of colorful graffiti.

—F.P.

Sanity

Todo tiene su tiempo y espacio.
Asegúrate de no comerte el reloj.
por miedo de que nade desnuda una hora
en los ojos de las cuerdas.

Everythig has its time and place.
Be sure not to eat the clock
for fear that an hour will swing naked
in the eyes of the ropes.

©F.P. – 2015.

Caribeña

I am the Caribbean:

the mixed jungle
the sleeping sunsets of curly hair
Taino’s eyes
Minerva Mirabal
Conquistadora of the impossible
Caña-speaking aloud soul
Lectora,
Another unknown inexperienced poet
Hierro character
and never a follower.
I guess thats too much to handle…

¿Perdón?

How many times can

you say sorry?

to

            a woman who knows her caminos

            Her hair screams Africa

            her mind is the Atlantic

            lectora de mentes

A woman who no longer waits

A strong-leave-me alone lady

never a llorona

A pants- and -skirt bien puestos

            A sábelo-todo

            lady with heavy books on her brain

            An Einstein with a Latin touch

Stop quoting Neruda

Stop taking classes to dance bachata

Stop pretending you like the MoMA

Quit.

©F.P. – 2015