Poem #11 - Intermediate Poetry Writing

(November 30, 2010)

“Oombrella”

“What? What did you just say?”

Grandma's face froze, like I’d pranked her with a water-squirting flower.

“Someday, you’ll live in Amurca,

and they don’t take your sheet there.

That’s why you hafta learn pronounciation.”

Frustration had set in on her deep red cheeks, like hoops set on fire.

“Umbrella begins with the letter u,

but that don’t mean a thing.

I’m going to teach you a trick.”

Two hours of juggling new sounds, time to add another pin.

“I want you to take your hand,

make a little fist, and punch yourself

in the stomatch. Go on.”

I don’t question her wisdom anymore; I carried on with the performance.

“Say uh! That’s how you say umbrella.

Uh, uh, uhmbrella. Like a man,

hombre, hombre, hombrella.”

Why is English such a beech? Painfully deceptive--a fun house mirror.

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.

Cheap

(September 30, 2010)

I’ve been thinking about those razors,

the blue generic ones I bought in Asheville.

They were labeled “For Men,”

but my legs craved the attention,

and they were on sale—the razors.

I wanted to wear that white skirt,

long enough to please your parents,

short enough for your hands to wander

while waiting for the breadsticks.

That’s the first time I’d shaved my legs

with the sole purpose of satisfying you,

not knowing all razors were for men.

I’ve been thinking about those razors—

the two dollars and ninety nine cents

that helped me become a woman—

as I lather up today and wonder if

the silkiness will ever be mine again.

Retrato de sómel

Lajas.

Ayer corrí en el carrito "nuevo" por el Valle de Lajas... ¡Qué emoción al ver de nuevo a mi "pasto rubio"! Aunque ya no era rubio, pues la región había sido bendecida con la presencia de la lluvia, la cual pasó de ser una extraña a una inquilina de primera clase, front and center, al cabo de varios meses. ¡Qué cómica se veía la grama, verde y llena de vida! Tuve que contener mis ganas de acariciar la clorofila aterciopelada con mi mejilla. La carretera seguía, seguía; el "fideo" seguía igual.

Ahí estaba, el valle abierto y la tierra baldía, cuando el cielo me dio un golpe en los ojos... no me quedó más remedio que bajar la mirada--me intimidaba. Me decía nena, me decía amante, me decía que lo mirara a la cara. Luego a poco, poco a luego, me atreví a mirar la manta azul que me hablaba. Cubriendo la espina dorsal de las lejanas montañas, me decía *Mírame. Soy hermoso. Aún te amo, a pesar que me abandonaste hace dos años.* Y así fue que el azul pálido se despidió de mí aquel día--con una sonrisa de nubes blancas y una cálida brisa.

Después de horas de revisita, llegué a mi destino. En la mano, un machete y en los labios... agua de coco frío.

¡Qué se joda Chapel Hill! Yo me quedo en Puerto Rico.

Cheers,

Charrrlín.

Life is Tetris and I'm Winning

My twenty years of experience have taught me to keep things simple and treat life like a game of Tetris. Sometimes things fall easily into place; other times, not so much.

My sister keeps asking me, “Where do you see yourself five years from now?” I always blurt out some automatic, white-picket fence answer involving a Prince Charming and the job of my dreams, but today was different. For the first time in years, I answered (quite sincerely), “I honestly don’t know.”

Five years ago, I would’ve never imagined that I would be living in the United States all by myself, paying my own bills, minding my own business, and plucking white hairs from my head--all with a big grin on my face. Five years ago, I didn't know that life was going to be so hard; most importantly, I didn't know I was going to be able to deal with it all. I'm a grownup. I won the prize. Now what?

Well, Loren… I really don’t know where I’ll be five years from now, but I can tell you one thing: I’ll be wherever I’m supposed to be and I’ll be happy.

Cheers,

Charlene Joy