I have never seen an ambulance in my hood
Porque para los de afuera
La vida aquí no vale nada
Menos si tienes un ala herida
Y no puedes volar.
Los cielos azules
No fueron hechos para nosotras
Solo existen para recibir nuestros cantos.
Los autoridades solo vienen a recoger los muertos
And those they want to be dead
Or good as dead
Enjaulados En ataúdes de cemento
Y alambre de espino.
Cuando llegaste a mi puerta
Gris
Ya tenías ofrendas de migas y agua a tus pies
Pero envuelto en un rebozo
En los brazos de una niña
Quien nunca jugaba con muñecas
Renació la esperanza blanca
Paloma

Pigeon

Nunca he visto una ambulancia en mi barrio
Because to outsiders
Life here is worthless
More so with a wounded wing
And you can’t fly
The blue skies weren’t meant for our kind
They exist to receive our songs.
The authorities only come to collect our dead
Or those they want to be dead
O casi muertos
Caged in cement and barbed wire coffins.
When you came to my door
Gray
Offerings of crumbs and water were already at your feet
But wrapped in a rebozo
Held in the arms of a girl
Who never played with dolls
Hope was reborn
White
dove

Originalmente la idea era usar el teclado y tinta como fusiles
Disparar las palabras en una balacera en contra de la memoria
Como piedras asesinas para hundir las cajas de calaveras
En un mar de olvido
Para asegurar su muerte
Porque siguen carcajeando
Mientras caminen en mis sueños
Y deseo el silencio
O un señal que después de 3 días habrá señales se resurrección.
Pero después
Me sorprendo
porque tanto tiempo después
Al pensar en ti
Las palabras nacen llorando
En un idioma que casi no entiendes
Y como vas a saber mis deseos
Sin acceso a una traducción.

Dedication and Intention to the Not So April’s Fool

Originally the idea was to use the keyboard and ink as rifles
Shoot the words out in a gunfight against memory
Like killer rocks to sink the boxes of skeletons
In an ocean of forgetting
To assure myself of their death
Because from inside they still laugh at me
And walk through my dreams
And I desire silence
Or at the very least
A sign
That after 3 days
There will be signs of resurrection.
But then
I stop,
Surprised that after so much time
When I think of you
The words are born crying in a language
That you hardly understand
And how will you know my desires
Without access to translation.

I am already a day behind.

Well not really. I sat down yesterday and scribbled some phrases in my notebook that I have put together today. The intention is to have 30 poems, along with my other sisters of the palabra, for the 30 days of April, National Poetry Month.

I also am making a commitment to read the poetry of other sisters. To use their words to inspire, sustain, and grow.

It is an attempt, forced by a made up association, to reclaim my title of poetisa.

A ver como hago to catch up at least in this space, even if the words exist somewhere else already.

The words always exist somewhere else already.
It is the job of the poet to move them into the light.