HOME | DD

Description
The ground is spinning like a carousel,
and I want to grip the clouds betwixt my fingers to stay upright.
My mouth tastes like bitter and my ears ring like echoes and my
skin crawls like insects and my nose smells like sickness
and all I see are spots.
My insides feel like burning smells—bitter, sharp, wrong
—and all I can think about now is that day in Old San Juan,
listening to the frogs chirp with Maritza.

I want to fall and melt into the pavement,
but the children are still laughing and that’s strange.
I’m sitting on the steps and the spots are disappearing
and I smell pernil in the air. There’s a nurse inside and there’s
sickness inside and so I can’t eat, no.
“Quieres arroz con gandules, nena?”
“No, gracias.”

The leaden grip of mourning extends from the house,
and I think of the tubes and the little white hospital bed,
and there’s hope. Because maybe the worst is over?
But I can hear someone coming now and go away, go away,
go away--so I roll myself up into a ball
and deposit myself in my pocket.

“Mana, where’s the bathroom?” he asks.
It’s just my little Santiago, calling me sister
in our foreign tongues, so I unfold myself
and I lead the way—because he’s a little lost boy
and it’s going to be a long day, a long week, a long month,
a short life.

But I see it again, there, inside. That bed and those tubes
and that mesmerizing pallor which I realize is
nothing more
than a weak grasp at life’s cruel existence.

A quien Dios ama, le llama.

The tubes are slithering, slithering and
staring and I think I need the clouds again,
but I’m fine, I’m fine—I am fine.

I see Maritza by the bedside and she’s not afraid
of the tubes or the bed or the pallor.
She’s holding her father’s hand even though
he doesn’t know anymore. A smile curves her lips
and I imagine the frogs are chirping
in her ears again.

Description
The ground is spinning like a carousel,
and I want to grip the clouds betwixt my fingers to stay upright.
My mouth tastes like bitter and my ears ring like echoes and my
skin crawls like insects and my nose smells like sickness
and all I see are spots.
My insides feel like burning smells—bitter, sharp, wrong
—and all I can think about now is that day in Old San Juan,
listening to the frogs chirp with Maritza.

I want to fall and melt into the pavement,
but the children are still laughing and that’s strange.
I’m sitting on the steps and the spots are disappearing
and I smell pernil in the air. There’s a nurse inside and there’s
sickness inside and so I can’t eat, no.
“Quieres arroz con gandules, nena?”
“No, gracias.”

The leaden grip of mourning extends from the house,
and I think of the tubes and the little white hospital bed,
and there’s hope. Because maybe the worst is over?
But I can hear someone coming now and go away, go away,
go away--so I roll myself up into a ball
and deposit myself in my pocket.

“Mana, where’s the bathroom?” he asks.
It’s just my little Santiago, calling me sister
in our foreign tongues, so I unfold myself
and I lead the way—because he’s a little lost boy
and it’s going to be a long day, a long week, a long month,
a short life.

But I see it again, there, inside. That bed and those tubes
and that mesmerizing pallor which I realize is
nothing more
than a weak grasp at life’s cruel existence.

A quien Dios ama, le llama.

The tubes are slithering, slithering and
staring and I think I need the clouds again,
but I’m fine, I’m fine—I am fine.

I see Maritza by the bedside and she’s not afraid
of the tubes or the bed or the pallor.
She’s holding her father’s hand even though
he doesn’t know anymore. A smile curves her lips
and I imagine the frogs are chirping
in her ears again.