Construction

(August 31, 2010)

After lunch, Mami brought my favorite sippy cup

out to the war-zoned backyard construction site.

She sidestepped threaded rods and stumbled along

to the cinder blocks where Papi and I would drink.

He’d say there was no better way to quench thirst

than sipping some 80 proof Superior Bacardi—

the ritualistic elixir that fuels our island life,

ever-present since my preschool days. I won’t lie,

sometimes I long for that stagnant stench of beer

and spiced rum that would cool us down, our team.

I remember how I thought of myself as Papi’s son,

and how bitter Mami wanted a daughter with smooth hands.

Getting banished from my “unladylike” playground,

my helpless cries fell deaf on Papi’s unseeing eyes:

I learned that treason came in different shades

of pink pointe shoes and sequined leotards.

Photographs show my sticky hair slicked back in a bun,

and my feet bound in satin ribbons, but I know

blotches of blush can’t hide the handyman’s helper.

Who knows who I’d see if Papi weren’t blind.