I always sleep on the ocean\
If you look closer\ you will see my hands\ dissolving.
I once owned a pair of seas\
Not what you thinking\ but mami pensó que me hicieron brujería\ Santa María\
He llorado tanto\ ya soy un residuo\
islas de ojos melancólicos\
Duermo con la sal\ siendo dulce de leche\
I sleep donde los otros no encuentran\ el silencio.
Si miras fijamente lo aceptarás\ mi
cuerpo\ es ola que baila
aunque se marchen\
se marchen todos\
Mujer con Voz
Llorar parece
facil
La vieja del colmado aconseja
que no lo hiciera
su sillas llenas de polvo
son huracanes silenciosos
de cosas que
ocultaba
como si es posible pretender
que en la garganta no duerme un
nudo
y uno no tenga derecho de
sentir
como si los violines de lo que
no se dice
no rasgan la confianza
Ayer quise llorar con los ojos
sin ser muda
Y solo me quede con las ganas
ellos
observan
esperando
mi derrumbe
•••
Crying seems easy
The old woman at the grocery store
advises not to do so
Her chairs filled with dust
are silent hurricanes
of things she was
hiding
as if it’s possible to pretend
that in the throat doesn’t sleep a knot
and one does not have the right to
feel
as if the violins of what is not said do not rip the confidence
Yesterday I wanted to cry with my eyes
without being mute
And I just stayed with the desire
they
observed
waiting for collapse
Mujer Con Voz
Poetry book available here
Les presto el velo,los zapatos imaginarios,
un sueño hecho trapo,
una rica visión prestada,
a los abuelos les presto,
sí,
un hormiguero pakistaní,
una creencia de esas rápidas,
una vitrina al medio mundo,
o el mundo que sea ombligo,
un humo de trampolines,
colores por todas las venas,
puentes que cruzan,
cruzando pueblos y niños,
una corriente,
una bachata que suena linda,
pies,
dulces,
un carrusel de espejos,
entregarme,
dar las gotas ahora,
los pies corriendo,
el Brooklyn Bridge se cose los labios,
corre,
con los pies que te han prestado,
con los sueños de papeles,
no quiero desahogarme
en el polvo de tu ausencia,
este enredo no quiero colocarlo en un casa de prejuicios,
corran a otro lado con mis abuelos y consejos medio cosidos,
mi bachata que no entiende ni papa pero que les borda la mirada,
quédense
quédense
quédense.
Mujer con Voz
Fly
they told our women.
Vuela alto,
le decían.
escupiendo.
mintiendo.
rompiendo.
garabatear
it was the easiest tool
arm
force
to destroy
las alas de mariposa
¿sabías que todo sale de la tierra?
and us
with our
weak
strategy
overthinking
strength
sabiduría
podemos resistir
así como los gusanos
que arrastran hoy
sus cuerpos.
Mujer con Voz
“En este país/barrio/apartamento/bajo mundo/ y mundo con mal olor aprendí muchas cosas, como por ejemplo; la vecina del apartamento 5G no es maga, pero sabe barajar sus vainas, los trapos colgados en las ventanas no son invitaciones para ir a comer, no se sabe cuál es más peligroso si el elevador león o la escaleras que se vuelven basureros y sitio de encuentros, que la puerta del frente no se habré con las manos (a menos que te guste el sucio), que esos aires acondicionados que observas desde lejos la mayoría son de lujo, que nadie conoce a nadie, que nadie es tu pana, que no puedes detenerte al admirar el sol, que si miras mucho te comen como chicharrón, que la gente te tiene en la mira, que no se te ocurra decir que aquí hay más que una caja de cartón con miles de cuadros de cristal, que este edificio es una solución que no soluciona, que hay de to’ y para todos, y que si te portas bien tal vez… quizás… no te llenan tu puerta de grafiti con malas palabras.”
“In this country/neighborhood /apartment/ underworld / and world with bad smell I learned many things, for example; the neighbor from apartment 5G is not a magician, but she knows how shuffle her things, that the rags hung in windows are not invitations to come in for dinner, I am not sure what is more dangerous if the lion elevator or the stairs that become landfills and encounters spots, that you cannot open the front door with your hands (unless you like dirt), that those air conditioners that you watch from afar most are just for decoration, that no one knows anyone, nobody is your homie, you cannot stop to admire the sun, that if you look too much you’ll be eaten as a pork, that people will targeted you, that you cannot even think to speak up about how here there is more than a cardboard box with thousands of glass pictures, that this building is a solution that does not solve, that it has everything for all, and that if you behave maybe… maybe… they will not fill your door of graffiti with bad words.”
Mujer con Voz © 2016
Get your signed copy of my poetry book that is in English, Spanish, and Spanglish ‘Para Cenar Habrá Nostalgia’ (which the title is translated to “For Dinner Nostalgia’) here or on Amazon. Thanks!
I remember
I can feel my lungs doing the work
H e l p M e
Being different is a hard pill to swallow
The tones of nature, coffee, my mother’s prayers live in me
The song is playing, I can’t help but dance
rotating like all those planets and
all those peaceful memories
The night is doing what she likes to do:
make us dream
I know some are scared of the light
And they don’t want anyone showing them
that the impossible can be possible
and that this moment, this moment right here
is what c o u n t s
My dance is my rainbow, sweet metaphor
And you know what is funny? When people see a rainbow in the sky,
they don’t run and say
“Hey! You!
Colorful thing!
Burn out”
I wish people will do the same with
others
If they want to be the light
in this dark place
let them be.
Photo by Djilas Gomez @djilasgomez
“On days like this one, mom, with her moño alto, used to cook for us/ Her church was the kitchen, her hands were the prayers/ The entire house smelled like a dream you could reach with your own hands/ A song de domingo was playing in the radio, before, way before the light was out for five hours/ The stove could talk to us, burning, burning things without taking away their magic/ Light entered her green cocina with a smile/ The colorful clothes were bathing themselves in the sol/ When the worship en la cocina was done, she was calling us to come prepare the table and confused all our names/ We did not care/ All of us sat on the wooden table/ The hot food was waiting patiently grandly offering itself to be eaten/ It was 12 on the dot/ The sun decided to sit with us/ The aroma of family increased as we eat/ The clothes drying in the patio never screamed for help/ On days like this one, I found out you could have a religion without a name/Mami, with her generous manos and her tall moño taught me that.”
Mujer con Voz ©2016
“¡Hey, tú!
Loca, sufrida, demente, desesperada”
me dicen, que atención solo busco para a propósito quedarme comiéndome una cama rota cerrada.
En dos, tres, cuarto, cincuenta versiones se parte mi cuerpo de mujer de avena,
yo no soy ninguna piedra…
la soledad me encuentra despierta y sueño con un mundo que no le tire con el tira piedras palabras absurdas, dedos apuntados, juzgando sin saber de dónde viene el sentimiento de esa…
una, otra persona que entre paredes oscuras llora tormentas..
¡Sufrir de una depresión no es una decisión como cambiarse de panties!
Hoy me desnudo, siento, grito…
la vida que devoran dentro de mi historia de nubes hechas
sumisa no quedará en mi página,
rompí tu ignorancia.
Photo by Fernelis Lajara @Laj13
A collaboration with the Dominican writer and photographer, Joelle Santos @Azuquita.prieta.
She looks like home
Segura
Caliente
Full of emptiness
spaces and silence
She feels like home
She is home
Ella es freedom
– Nakedness
@azuquita.prieta
Yo a ella la he visto
walking with whatever the hell she wants
Always with her stomach full
loving the curves in her eyes
the same way she
values the corners of her breasts
Desnudez of the body and soul
she prefers
Sumisa no es
Intesidad carne de viva mujer
She is not dead inside in a body that’s alive
she is butter in the fly.
F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry
Color de carne, skin color, colored hands, hands colored with pieces of the Atlantic’s warm stomach /spinal cord of pueblos indigenas / pacific thunder and drastic rain, you tell me, tú me dices, I can’t paint the billboards of my skylines with my words (mís palabras) because I am brown and “brown” means backwardness, atrazao’, Old World, smelling like machetes and an uncivilized big wide mouth? My skin will tell you everything you need to know, I will keep writing because brown means I can write in the corners of my people’s minds, I can speak/write/scream/be myself/be unique and still be my type of civilización, and I can be diferente , something, my darling, you lack.
—“Minority”
Mujer con Voz Poetry 