Niña Diaspora

 

“Mis tres moñitos acalorados, canela espesa jugosa, risueños, morir soñando, sabrosos, oscuro con claro, caribeños aventureros y revueltos tienen más alma que tu hipócrita sonrisa de conquistadora “buena gente”.

— la niña diaspora

This Train is Going Downtown 

“Going to sleep with the past trapped around those moon looking eyes pretending to not care at all about what happened and you still care I still care, we both know, be both feel it, rushing down our throats in our separated cities in our divided pillows in our distant bodies that we are still connected to the day when you were still a stranger bypassing the subway car in Brooklyn waking me up, shaking me up, making me feel human, human, human…some word in people’s mouth that doesn’t have significance any longer for me, after you.

•••

“El ir a dormir con el pasado envuelto alrededor de los ojos que se miran como la luna fingiendo que no les importa en absoluto lo que sucedió y todavía te importa todavía me importa, ambos sabemos, los sentimos los dos, corriendo por nuestras gargantas en nuestras ciudades separadas en nuestras almohadas distantes en nuestros cuerpos separados que todavía estamos conectados a el días cuando todavía una desconocido eras  pasando por el vagón del metro en Brooklyn, que me despertaba, temblando, haciéndome sentir humano, humano, humano…una palabra más en la boca de la gente que ya significando no tiene, después de ti.”

Amazon 

Photo by the artist Djilas Gomez @djilasgomez.

                                    

                                                                       

For Angy Abreu 

Hitting
was easier for you.
It is your superpower
to grow more cells
between your legs
and ego
but there’s an espacio vacío
on your tiny brain
Hitting, fuck! Golpear 
was easier for you
escupiendo words on her face
you opened up su piel like
a wanted envelope
there is nothing green inside – you thought
He opened up scars that never existed
too bad, the woman in her won’t take crap
too bad, the woman in her won’t shut up
she is the Amazon
wild and beautiful, but don’t tempt her
wild and deep
“don’t touch me”
She is not the false man made green venom
you waited on,
she’s worse…
a scar that won’t weep
it would just dry like the sticky side of the envelope
not like the organ in his pants
that will only oxide with time.

—F.P.

Speak up against domestic violence 🚫‼

The Day After

 

Photo by Joelle Santos @azuquita.prieta

“Perdóname”, resbaló de su boca varías veces terminando barriendo el piso. En cambio ella, hizo todo para que el perdón de la boca para afuera no se la comiera. Todo lo que se debía hacer se hizo; sacar la basura, quemar la furia, y prender la estufa con el café a todo dar. Saqueo el más mínimo recuerdo con anís y helado con sabor Oreos.

Para ella el perdón era eso: quemar lo desecho para que no reviva. Sin embargo, el proceso era más largo…se requería tiempo más que nada, ¡tiempo! El perdón que andaba buscando no son actos; como quemar objetos y ensuciar su boca con malditas malas palabras, más bien, es dejar los tetéres intactos. Perdonar es afirmar que ya no molestan las flechas lanzadas, caminando sin tener que llevar vainas cargadas en la espalda. Sobre todo, que el perdón no sea de la boca para afuera… es de adentro, si no comerá su víctima con ansias como un veneno silencioso.

•••

“Forgive me,” it slipped from his mouth several times ending sweeping the floor. Instead, she did everything she could so the forgiveness from the mouth out cannot eat her. Everything that has to be done was done; throwing out the garbage, burning the anger, and turning on the stove with coffee in full swing. Plunder the slightest recollection with anise and flavored ice cream and Oreos.
For her forgiveness was this: burn the waste so it can’t revive. However, the process was longer…time is required more than anything, time! The forgiveness she was searching for is not an act; like burning objects and soil your damn mouth with profanity, rather, it is to leave things intact . To forgive is to realize the thrown arrows no longer bother, walking without carrying pods loaded on the back. Above all, that forgiveness is not the one that comes out of the mouth… it’s in, if not it will eat its victim forward as a silent poison.

Freedom

   Photo by Ismael Rodríguez @ismrodz

The Africa in me won’t go to sleep,

so please…

let me be free as the sea.

Again.

•••
El África en mi no va dormir,

así que por favor…

déjenme ser libre como el mar.

De nuevo.

Liar 

De todas tus mentiras la que más me encanto fue la que no dijiste con tu lengua pero sí con tu cara, como por ejemplo… “Yo no quiero comer más, estoy lleno”, y tu boca goteando.

Of all your lies, the one that I liked the most was the one that you didn’t say with your tongue, but with your face. For example, “I don’t wanna eat, I’m full,” and you’re there salivating.

Escape

[A second collaboration with a teacher and writer @unclewalts]

I want to follow the stars
with her until we have been
to places unknown and
tasted foods and fresh air
in every clime, until time
seems to stand still and
we become one, together
in a strange land, until
we finally unite and bind
our souls as one.

— m r @Unclewalt2

I want to find you in the
mold of the bathroom floor
(with pastel colors and dramatic lines),
que tú braid the uncontrollable
chaotic hair of mine,
and then I can react to the
smell of your pensamiento 
– kind of in Inglés – which
is traveling from the vocals
of the siren in the autopistas 
of the world, but only coming
to salvarme a mí, rescue me.

— F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

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.