Querencia Press: three poems

Sep 14

First thing

to know I was not made by any man.

Unmade by any man, I am a caravan of unmothered mothers
reaching in the pre-dawn dark toward—if not safety—
anything else. Untethering from cruelty.

My grandmother left her home at seventeen, like my mother,
like me. Unmade by men and born to leave.
When I was five I met my grandmother’s mother. She told me
I was cursed and she could tell by the fat pink strawberry tumor
my bottom lip bore since the day I was born. It stayed there
until I was old enough to think, from time to time,
I’d rather be dead than anything else. I’d rather be unmade.

Children aren't cruel because they're born that way.
My great-grandmother met a five-year old girl
and told her she was cursed. Placed all that heavy history
on my childish mouth. Compelled her daughter to leave
her home, having been unmade by a man who was dead
within the year. Called her daughter evil. Called me cursed.

I cut that strawberry from my lip.
Keep the memory in my mouth.

Corrido (humming)

Ella me canta in murmurs,
hymns that I alone could carry—
Mijita, life exquisitely
will happen si amas sin temor.

Recuerda, si debes, debes
llorar sin vergüenza.
Your heart is yours to bear.
Deja quemar el mundo en ti.
A fist cannot carry ashes.

Mi linda, we are blessed to drift
through valleys como viento,
como ecos contra paredes de montañas.
You’ll never need a man to tell you your name.
Nunca anclas, we are dust, my love…
We rise— spread— vivimos en fuego

My hummingbird, quick-hearted, flame
a thousand miles from home, broke.
She feeds the earth.
Es la vida.
We struggle because we must.

Palomita, says my mother’s mother
whose mouth I have forgotten,
Do not, I beg, my love, forget
these hands that have always held you.