Today I take back my birth right
 
without fear or hesitation.
 
You, who believe you have as much right to deny me my heritage like conquistadores in foreign ships.
 
Yo soy Boricua! Aunque no lo sepas!
 
Yo soy Boricua! Aunque tu me niegas!
 
I know how it drives you insane, that my Spanish sounds like heresy.
 
Do you not recognize your own brother?
 
I am the product of our mother’s violation, the bastard son of history, the crumbs that the mainland left behind! I am the echo of our past!
 
And I see you. I see through you. You foam at the mouth, ready to spit rejection into my face.
 
As I speak, I see your lips curling like bows taking aim at my chest. Your tongues are pitchforks starving for blood. Your words are salt encrusted and stink of vinegar left to dry.
 
Your fingers slowly creep, crawl, and wrap themselves around stones. Accusing me of adultery, pharisees of my flag.
 
Me acusan de traición!
 
Me han dicho que abandone mi patria!
 
Por no estar sufriendo con ella! Luchando por ella!
 
Accuse me of poverty instead!
 
Accuse me of loving a family I could not provide for! As if being Puerto Rican eight thousand miles away from home was not suffering enough.
 
As if representing our pride and defending our honor to those who believe we have none left isn’t enough of a fight!
 
But I see that your eyes still speak silence and rejection.
 
Sin embargo, I know who I am and where I am from.
 
Yo soy el jíbaro triste, migrando a la cuidad de Nueva York.
 
I am the sleepless nights in the heartless jungles of concrete and traffic.
 
I am the desperation of the immigrant.
 
I am the weeping eyes of mothers praying for their sons.
 
I am all of their “Hail Mary’s” and “Padre Nuestro”.
 
I am the uncertainty of choice. To leave or to stay?
 
To leave.
 
And pack your whole life inside a bag of luggage…
 
 
I am the isolation of our single star.
 
Quiet seed of the Caribbean.
 
It wants to scream out from beneath the earth, to be acknowledged by the world.
 
We are taught that injustice is our daily bread. To be thankful that we are not like other Latin countries, “republicas hambrientas”
 
Justice is too much to thirst for, because “no estamos listos para la soberanía.”
 
As if freedom is something we must learn, as if it wasn’t already seared into the very skin of our souls when we are born! As if it wasn’t already carved into our bones and written in verse within our hearts!
 
Tell me, do you think we felt loved when the President threw paper towels at us when there was more blood running in the island than water?
 
Neither did I.
 
I am Judas, who betrayed himself and sold his flesh for thirty pieces of silver and a loaf of bread to give to his mother. 
 
You would have me crucified for being born into the same skin as you.
 
The sound of my rolling r’s is flat and deformed, my skin is a shade of American to you, but I will never be what you want me to be.
 
I will not confess to crimes I did not commit.
 
Because you cannot abandon a home,
 
 
that has never left your heart…
 
 
Y confieso con mi cantico triste,
 
Yo soy Boricua, aunque no lo sepas.
 
Yo soy Boricua, aunque tu me niegas.

Abuelita tells me that I was born in the month of Tlaloc:
Part jaguar, part thunder and rain—grown like corn,
in a smoggy valley downstream from the Iztaccihuatl.
 
There, we knew how to cook for the dead: tamales
sweet as suffering. With molcajetes, we mashed hearts
stuffed with the blood of truths omitted while loving.
 
I don’t remember the bullet that split Julio’s skull. But,
imagine Mother hypervigilant for the sky falling.
Death threats, caseloads of Bacardi, comida cold.
 
Joy coagulates, like cars on the periférico. Finally,
we see corruption’s fangs taller than any volcanos.
Negrita is left at the pound. All night, camote carts cry.
 
Then came the trunks, the take-only-what-you-need, leave
the snow on the Ajusco, take Juanita Perez. Feel the bloody
slice of the interim between indigena and immigrant.
 
Here, my estadounidense classmates pretend I don’t exist.
Abuelita dies. Even Tlaloc forgets me in this blurry desert:
Santa Anas in our eyes, on the stingy side of survival.
 
Somedays, we even let ourselves feel the grinding
of the stone, identity sifting, the flattening of the rolling pin.
Next time, consider keeping all the husks when you peel me.

 
Fear runs like a headless chicken
flapping into you at the market,
when you least expect it to— ​
wings tossing up dirt long after the machete
has been wiped clean of blood.
 
The blade is our phone. It swings
at safety every time the calls arrive:
“Los vamos a fusilar!” 
 
Meanwhile, Mami draws lines in the rugs
pacing—she squawks, her feathers awry.
 
Some will grab the rosary, others the gun.
There is no time to wait for pricy milagros
in the Plaza de la Conchita.
 
But I was with Juanita making maza and, I swear,
she left the virgencita on her gold throne,
and summoned the pumas, monkeys and nāhuallis
down from her verdant Oaxacan hills instead,
right into our kitchen in the big city.
She wove protective spells into my black braids,
combed out my anxiety with her whispery Náhuatl,
took me straight to the moon of her smiling face.
 
Some will burn copal, others learn about battle
from the zing-zing of hummingbirds.
 
It’s no wonder Mami, to this day,
though safely tucked into a California suburb,
refuses to answer her phone:
She didn’t have a nursemaid
like my Juanita. 

 
My Abuelita nearly died in the fire
that ate her songbirds,
 
in the city Dad came from--
where he played the violin.
 
Maybe it was cigarettes,
maybe spontaneous combustion.
 
We don’t talk about those things
that happened in Juarez,
 
where youth was bought and sold,
like trinkets at the border.
 
But ask my mother and she’ll tell you
how Alzheimer’s brought it all back.
 
How the body resurrects wounds
before it dies: harkens back to terror
 
through touch. After the brain falters,
after fighting, escaping, crossing,
 
sweating, surviving. You still die
under a conquistador’s swinging sword.
 
I prefer fire.

​Katarina Xóchitl Vargas was raised in Mexico City. She and her family moved to San Diego when she was 13, where she began composing poems to process alienation. A dual citizen of the United States and Mexico, today she lives on the east coast where—prompted by her father’s death—she’s begun to write poetry again and is working on her first chapbook. Somos en escrito is delighted to  be the first to publish her writings.

Vielka Solano reads from her book Naked Offering

Vielka Solano lee de su libro, Desnuda Ofrenda

Desnuda
 
Me gusta andar desnuda por el mundo
salvo quizás por las palabras
sin dolor cubriéndome la piel
mis tentadores volcanes en el medio al frente
orgullosos
mis tripas rugientes ahogadas en merlot
 
Sin Calvin Klein Victoria Jacob Versase o Lauren
Sin tejidos caprichosos cubriendo mi vientre
mis piernas
mis hebras rebeldes
 
Sin las palmeras de artificios carcomidos
en mentes infectadas de malicia
cubriendo mis nalgas o mi sexo
 
Desnuda
recorrer el patio del ensueño
dejando que las gardenias me abracen
mientras Óscar se sonríe pícaro
y deja que el viento descarado
le mueva las ramas
 
Sentarme en el medio del verde manjar
y tocarme los muslos
con la yerba silvestre que provoca mis ganas
y me lleva al diluvio
desnuda
me encanta
 
Desnuda
 
Saborear los suspiros de olores
revueltos en la cocina
la alegría que me alcanza resbalando
por mi lengua insaciable
 
Des     nu       da
 
Masturbar el deseo entre el calor de julio
o el frío de enero
Dejar que se cuelguen las cicatrices
de mi cuerpo liberado
sin importar la mirada mal puesta
el pensamiento podrido o el deseo infectado
la malla de artimañas
los discursos sin sentido
 
Y qué coño
                        me gusta
andar desnuda por el mundo
sin la necesidad del vestido
para guiar mis pasos
o la aceptada sonrisa aprobándome
y que digan que soy putatrevidaloca
que está de venta la carne
me encanta   andar  desnuda
 
Y qué coño
 
y qué

 
Anónimo
 
(En silencio
no vaya a ser que me deporten)
 
Partir la historia en segmentos
abrazar este de ahora
propagando una idea sin divisiones
Volcar este arrebato de letras promisorias en el sartén
y cocinarlo  
Llenarlo con el calor congelado
de los putos hombres
brutos            
perdón
esos que se creen que tiran el caño más largo
flagelos encontrados entre rayos divididos
 
Volcar el hechizo de la reina condecorada
sin rostro
que a pataleos hizo presencia
entre pezones duros tatuados de gozo
entre conglomerado de injusticia patriarcal
arrasando las faldas pensantes
y el intelecto preñado de blasfemia
 
Recordar el comienzo
 
Abrazar esta tarde poblada de cuerpos llenos de sueños  
cargados de mierda perfumada
perdón
cagados
y un dolor colectivo que derrama los baldes
hechos de quejas                                       
que levanta las rabias y las metrallas
y las estrellas
y el odio somático que abraza las calles
la tuya
la mía
la de ellos
rompiendo
un continente
dos continentes
todos los continentes
 
En dos patas
psicópatas descerebrados
deambulan los callejones
 
También deambulan en mi casa
shhhhhhhh en la casa blanca
corazones sin alas sin ventrículo sin futuro
una cultura de razas etiquetadas por pieles amarillasblancasnegras
entre discursos de porcelana
semblantes anémicos
supremacía barata
 
Puertas cerradas
fronteras
regateando el poderío del norte
como mierda de putrefactos seres
desamparados de sentimiento
 
Quiero agarrar este trozo
arrancárselo a esos pendejos
pobres seres
des  alma  dos
infames
macabros
perdón
ma tar los
Perdón
            perdón
mal va dos
a ca bar los

​
Ofrenda
 
¡Corre!
¡Corre!
¡Corre!
 
Cuélgate del sol o de la luna llena
Ponte la gardenia blanca entre los muslos y
¡Corre!
¡Corre!
¡Corre!
 
Deja los rizos libres al viento
cubiertos de ensangrentadas
estrellas
 
Mutiladas por mentes malditas
masturbándose con el manjar
que las ha manejado por milenios
 
Como tú
ellas
nacieron detrás de un crucifijo
de un pez con doble ojo
y como tú
abrazaron sueños que ni siquiera
de manos de la lechuza
les fue posible alcanzar
 
Montaron hormigas picantes
como ají habanero
sin plan
sin premeditación
solo alevosía
sin ventaja
 
Batallaron entre el culo del profesor
macabro y la lombriz amarilla
preñada de quejidos pendejos
 
Como tú
se tropezaron con un terrón de azúcar
y mermelada de fresa
que las llevó al infierno
y así
como tú
corretearon un sueño varado
entre platos sin platanos
y sin arroz
y sin ni siquiera una muñeca de trapo
 
¡Corre!
¡Corre!
¡Corre!
 
Deja que el sol de junio cambie
las cicatrices de tu clítoris por astros
Abraza la luna llena
 
Otras muchas como tú
aporrearon los perros bravos
tratando de resguardar el centro
Ese que no alcanzó a tocar el traficante
ni el mercado de brujas
sin escobas mágicas
Ellas
también jugaban a Mambrú se fue a la guerra
qué dolor
qué dolor
qué pena
mientras les bajaban los pantis en un callejón
entre charcos de lluvia rojablancanegra
Y así salían del escondite
montadas en caballitos de un mar rojo
envueltas en sábanas de abandono
 
¡Ay muchachita!
¡Ay niña mía!
Entierra las monedas de ese rancio coyote
que se cruza las verjas
usadas como símbolo pútrido
que recorre los bancos y se revuelve
en los cementerios
Pisotéalas
Párteles el olfato
a esos tigres diente de sable
tigres de Tasmania
leones de las cavernas
bestias lanudas
megaterios
exterminadores de tu universo
que llegan como fuerza constrictora
arrasando tu inocencia  
 
Cabalga tu historia
arrástralos hacia el centro del Monte Merapi
entiérralos en el Nyiragongo
que su lava de más de doscientos mil grados
les desintegre la conciencia pedregosa
 
¡Vamos!
            ¡Vamos!
                        ¡Vamos!
 
Cuelga tus bucles de cuarzo
de citrina de amatista o de hojalata
Levántalos sobre el atardecer
y entrégalos en bandejas
colmadas de flores frescas
 
Cuelga también tu vientre rosa
sobre el pantano de astros negros
que tocan tus pies
junto al de ellas
ofrécelo a los dioses
 
Levanta tu sueño
¡Vuela!
            ¡Vuela!
¡Vuela!
 
Yo ya estoy aquí

​Flor y canto para nuestros tiempos
(al modo nahua)

By Rafael Jesús González

La flor y canto que nos llega
es desarraigado --
         se marchitan las flores,
                  se desgarran las plumas,
                          se desmorona el oro,
                                    se quiebra el jade.
No importa que tan denso el humo de copal,
         cuantos los corazones ofrendados,
se desarraigan los mitos,
         mueren los dioses.
Tratamos de salvarlos
de las aguas oscuras del pasado
con anzuelos frágiles
forjados de imaginación y anhelo.
Dentro llevamos voces mixtas --
abuelas, abuelos
conquistados y conquistadores
         — nuestro legado.
De él tenemos que escoger lo preciso,
         lo negro, lo rojo,
cultivar nuestras propias flores,
cantar nuestros propios cantos,
recoger plumas nuevas para adornarnos,
oro para formarnos el rostro,
buscar jade para labrarnos el corazón --
sólo así crearemos el nuevo mundo.

​Flower & Song for Our Times
            (in the Nahua mode)
  
The flower & Song that come to us
is uprooted --
          flowers wither,
                    feathers tear,
                             gold crumbles,
                                       jade breaks.
It matters not how thick the incense smoke,
           how many the hearts offered,
myths are uprooted,
           the gods die.
We try to save them
from the dark waters of the past
with fragile hooks
forged of imagination & longing.
Within we carry mixed voices --
grandmothers, grandfathers
conquered & conquerors
          — our legacy.
From it we have to choose the necessary,
          the black & the red,
grow our own flowers,
sing our own songs,
gather new feathers to adorn ourselves,
discover new gold to form our face,
seek jade to carve our hearts --
only thus can we create the new world.

​By Jenny Irizary

Come to think of it my father only ever swore
in Spanish Maldito sinvergüenza some verb porquerías
I could never catch what was being done to the porquerías
or if it was their being-made getting done to him
when I didn’t do the dishes
fast or often enough
(it was me he usually muttered that phrase to)
stoic not angry
but yes, sometimes he was angry.
You asked me did he ever take me
fishing? Yeah, and I was disobedient
or something I don’t remember
and he slapped
me. No, he didn’t do it a lot
just when I was being contrary.
My mother?
Never
calm
even that time I came home
and she’d stayed
to do laundry
caught her hand in the press lever
(we didn’t have tumble machines)
it looked like a crushed pomegranate
and sidewalk gum boiled into beet juice
but she didn’t cry
and my dad explained
what had happened
he wasn’t at work, either, which was odd
only happened one other time
I can think of
because he drank too much
and when the guy he carpooled with
to the factory came by
my mom peaked out the door
whispered he had a hangover
(she knew vernacular like that
words her relatives slipped on
into other verbs
I could never tell which ones
so she talked to officials
or just anyone speaking English
or I did).
So that was the other time my dad
didn’t go to work.
I was usually the first
home to take care of my younger brother
no, not the one that died in my mother’s arms at the bus stop
the one that got tied up
in the umbilical cord
wrapped up inside
came out blue not breathing
he’s why I always thought the Blues
was a good word for music you choke
out when people didn’t want you
to breathe
my brother didn’t speak
in the same sounds
assigned actions as other people
but his exclamations
aren’t exactly passive
and he never was, either,
which was why I watched him
like when he climbed out the window onto the roof
maybe searching for kites
or just a different view
when my dad showed up at the front door
I was staring down at
my shoes willing his eyes
anywhere but up
when he looked
and saw my brother climbing
smiling the rest of us were panicked
(but my brother seemed very relaxed)
took a hand off the roof
reached up
and our dad started
to coax him down
telling him not to be afraid
even though he clearly wasn’t
“Come back inside
where it’s safe”
that kind of thing
he rarely spoke
so soothingly to me
although when I threw a baseball
through the garage window
and pieced the glass back together
with glue he grinned
a little
at the notion I could
put one over on him.
I wasn’t a good liar and I felt guilty
so I usually just confessed
like when my brother and I were jumping
on the bed he seemed to stay in the air
longer than I could have
sworn he was up
when I came down
feet hard on his belly
sloshing like the sound those fish
would have made if I had caught them
instead of being a good-for-nothing
like my father said
(or whatever he said in Spanish
like I said I don’t know Spanish
didn’t teach you Spanish
but life sticks dictionaries you can’t
shake to your shoe
and you walk around like that
sometimes for a lifetime
maybe just for a childhood
anyway
my brother and I we were young and
the diagnosis
was around that time
I cried when I told my dad
I thought I knocked
the quiet voice out of him
made him loud with the sounds
people use to excuse the fear
they already have
maybe call the police
(and later, they did
and that’s why my parents decided
if I was going to college they couldn’t
take care of him
so I’m kind of the reason he was institutionalized
in a way because otherwise he might have
gotten arrested or hurt
but that place we dropped him
rotting mattresses lined up smelling of semen and urine
out of the movies or books
or the records those kind of places didn’t keep
or worse, the ones they did).
And the diagnosis when they called my little brother
“Retarded” then “Developmentally Delayed” then “Autistic”
and always “unacceptable”
this kid who loved to fly kites with me at Wrigley Field
until he took a roll of receipt tape from a vendor
and the guy yelled for some police
and they tackled him
my English almost wasn’t good enough
to get him off
not using language like other people
is one of those inexcusable cardinal sins I guess
or maybe stealing
while Puerto Rican
and what you kids call it
non-neurotypical
and running smiling
bent over looking up
a kite soaring overhead
we’re supposed to be docile
shouldn’t be able to hunch over
and move that’s some trickster terror
to some people
that day when my brother and I almost both got booked
for stealing juvenile delinquents
was the one time I saw my father cry
and he didn’t swear in English or Spanish
nothing he could get done with words.

​Jenny Irizary grew up along the Russian River in Northern California and now resides in Oakland. She holds a B.A. in Ethnic Studies and an M.A. in literature from Mills College. Her work has been published in Label Me Latina/o, Atticus Review, Sick Lit, Snapping Twig, District Lit, Communion, and other journals. Her poem, "If You Want More Proof She's Not Puerto Rican," was the winner of Green Briar Review's 2016 poetry contest.