“Despierta dormilon / te soy infiel con el sol”
― Las Chicas del Can, “Las Pequeñas Cosas”
BEMBA PINTA’
You wear red on your bemba,
a lipstick your mother-in-law gave away.
You wear some tight blue leggings
a pair you got for yourself the first year in college.
You wear a crème, old-looking blouse with a see-through heart in the rear,
one you got in clearance when you worked in retail.
You also wear a chancleta that got more colors than a carnival parade,
one friend got it for you when you were still a novia, nothing else.
A high ponytail on your auburn Afro-Caribbean hair with tints of caramel
was on your head.
Perfume, you sweet-scented every inch of yourself
because hello, aromas make you feel appealing.
You decided to be the woman you always wanted to be.
You decided to be a woman, whatever that was, ugly or not.
A woman with confidence around the hips, strong ones.
You crushed down all your imperfections with the sugary aroma.
Who else doesn’t feel like a Latin Victoria Secret model with
long hair, embracing your spinal cord?
I have to tell you, her shadow was hyper, it did not hide.
She assumed she was conquering her world, one without
fingers pointing at her thin chicken legs.
She assumed she was Picasso;, she thought she was the color red.
She dreamt like an immigrant at night.
She dreamt.
She dreamt a damn lot.
Her skin was glowing like a Christmas tree on the day of the Reyes.
She swore she was the skyline. She wanted to educate the world.
Her mouth was not so giant anymore;, her positive boldness was.
She traveled in a click of a second, she was winning.
As soon as she walked up to him, all she overheard was;
“Why in the world are you wearing that and red lipstick to the park?
Take it of all off.”
The world she invented in a lick of her lips
fell like dominos; one after the other.
She was in the middle of them all,
there were no survivors left,
¡qué vaina!
“Yo no soy baúl de nadie.”
― Frase Dominicana
RESPETO MERECE MI NOMBRE
My name
hasn’t given me any problems until I landed foot here,
it must be so damn hard to spell
a four-letter name.
It is easier to say than Connecticut,
Naugatuck or cerebellum,
I bet.
My name,
la [descendencia] of my long family,
it’s giving people headaches.
God! Take un remedio for your ignorance.
All of a sudden my name has
more letters than an urban dictionary.
“Repeat after me; it’s Fior not Flor.”
“You mean? Fioreeeeeeed or Fire?”
“No sir! “
“What do you mean? Its Fiorrrrrrr?!”
I have lost my
last drop of paz.
My name,
the [legado] of my dynasties,
is never going to be
lower because of your expectations.
Romantic, seductor, short,
petite name,
I shouldn’t be judged for four characters.
Stop adding letters!
Stop sounding like a cotorra
who immigrated to your mouth.
Vomit the ignorance
sooner than later!
Why, if I have to memorize
all your towns,
you cannot try writing
my name precisely?
“But you don’t look like your name.”
“How is a Fior is supposed to look like?”
My name,
the [recuerdo] of love
my dad has for my mom;,
it is stupid to people
who don’t look beyond their noses.
They think
that the color of the skin needs to
match with a name.
They rip each of its
bones if it “sounds”
like the nanny,
the cleaning lady,
or what they see on TV.
As if working honestly
is infamy.
As if cleaning bathrooms
is prostitution.
As if the media
is the holy pura verdad.
Yes, my name is Fior,
although it came from Flor
-flower-
still, it’s not Flor.
I can change the diaper of a kid.
I can clean the office you made a disarray.
I can show you the realidad.
These things don’t make
me fewer than
the deprived intelligence and
humanity that crosses through your skull.
Mi nombre,
(lo que tengo de por vida)
needs its own chair,
not segregated in the back of
the bus because of
the shade you assume it has,
it needs its own chair because
it really shines,
sí no, ask my mom
she would tell you about
the things you need to identify:
descendencia,
legado
recuerdo.
y lo que llevas de por vida.
Stay away from misspelling
my name.
Mi nombre,
my name,
has its own soul
have some respect,
POR FAVOR.
Tribeca, I Don’t Belong to You
Vivo en Tribeca
un poquito de Wall Street en los zapatos Gucci que la señorita modela
Los rascacielos tocan las emociones
aparatos electrónicos de poca clase
humanos mayoría de leche
Starbucks en la esquina con los que con su marca levantan el cuello
Mis ojos toman cuerda de reloj buscando entre señas
algo que me traslada a tierra quisqueyana
por unos instantes…
unos segundados de morir y soñando
Las calzadas gritan de tanta cabezas que las pisan
Turistas perdidos en chancletas
Las fotos captan un pedacito de Chambers Street
calle de humo contaminado con construcciones
que no se le encuentran fin ni comienzo
Carreras de coches con los niños montados a primera fila…
ojos azules y narices largas
Hoy soy africana caminando por estas cuidad
metida en el bolsillito caro de otra ciudad
el cabello rizado no me ayuda
ni unos labios subjetivos que murmuran miles de cosas;
una indígena, mestiza
camina con su tapa rabo con un BlackBerry en la mano,
to blend with the others
Pa’ que no se den cuenta que no soy de aquí
Los lujosos apartamentos se quedan mirando a la extraña,
me ignora Acappella.
A mí me da igual.
A mí me da igual.
El Nuevo Mundo es un Invento
La caña
con la Ñina y la Pinta
Santa María
silueta de Anacaona
Cacique montado en una pasola de palmas
el sudor comiendo del sol en la frente
África se transportó sin decidir
a la fuerza
a las malas
Bartolomé de Las Casas
¿Taínos dónde están?
el areito quedó sin terminar
los barcos están llenos de criminales
las cadenas
el tráfico de esclavos
perdimos sin ganar
ganamos perdiendo
¡Manden más gente de la Península Ibérica!
el nuevo mundo es un invento
mundo viejo ya
no es de ustedes
no es mío
Caribes / Galibi, ¿Dónde están sus canoas?
Solo está la brisa para darnos sus retratos
recordatorios de la historia poca escrita
las tres g:
GOD
GLORY
GOLD
con la misión de convertir pecando con la otra mano
matando la tierra
matando a un hermano
indígena
mestizo
mulato
esclavo
la estúpida estructura del quiénes están arriba mirando hacía abajo
sin bajar de escalón
perfumando en conquistas poco justificadas
pérdida humanas
perdida de historias
traición
dolor
nosotros.
