“Tempo” y “Campo” – Silvia Angulo

Written by: Silvia Angulo

 

Tempo

Test the origins of your tempo, they will do this

pry the crack from your shell

open, its contours at the ridge

of sound and neck. A voice as low

as the tide yawns wide,

lining surface, or what you knew

of surface.

Have you heard the breeze filling

your fingers, the river’s ears

resting on bitten nails?

When walking on my país, wave of land,

pure feet brown, chata dance of warmth

of foam, stalks forgotten homes. Strength can pour you down,

it spills you over, feminine in strut, masculine in talk.

First midnight we took you to the abuelos

they didn’t praise you for androgyny, or offer you

name, surname, and nickname, instead they

thrusted it on us.

Only titles and expectations, possible professions,

and then America. More and more America

with its television.

 

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Campo

Born of El Campo, in the blood of roots

in dreams one can’t escape it.

There I have tasted

Cacao from tia’s crops

licked the coconut skin on a whim.

Squeezed by hand my own café

ate my mangos, kiwis, apples,

all fruits of the tropics.

Swallowed calloused kale and drank

bitter wine, long before I knew about intoxication.

I could chug fresh banana cream,

buttermilk homemade ice cream

in a matter of seconds, in secret

before the rooster cawed.

I would go down unpaved roads

that led to languid hills

under the lazy loving sun,

barefoot, warm dirt

smushing between toes.

I searched reaching woods to explore

until the adventure was done

and the darkness settled

at a much

slower pace

than the day.

I watched fireflies linger

feeling life last longer

melting into a sleep so deep

on the porch.

Knowing what abundance

and infinity was.

 

 

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