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Cartography
after Neruda
I have no country.
My body is my map.
Myriad tributaries
of veins flow in my limbs,
weave through twig
baskets of bones,
carry oceans of blood.
My nails are tiny barrier
islands, my hair seagrass,
eyes tidepools brimming
with sea creatures.
Shy snails inhabit
the shells of my ears.
Deer tread on the stones
of my wrists, the rocks
of my ankles. Pebbles
lodge in my mouth.
When I breathe,
a gale fills my lungs,
a mistral, seasonal
siroccos. Rain water
collects in my valleys:
on the inside of my elbow,
the back of a knee,
the hollow in my neck,
in ridges alongside ribs.
It spreads over banks,
floods into caves,
drips inside forests,
reaches for the dusty
edges of deserts.
I have no country,
no familiar soil,
no sacred ground
in which to lay my bones,
no grandparents buried
in the country of their birth.
My parents will not lie
in theirs, nor I in mine.
My body is my map,
skin topography,
borders bending
with the fate
of the disinherited
who bear their resources
to wherever wars,
dictators, circumstance
fling them on the globe.
On a clear day,
on this map, I can trace
where I was born:
on an island shaped
like a sweet tobacco
leaf, hand-rolled,
lit with a flame,
inhaled deeply,
savored, smuggled
out, set free
to toss and travel
on the communal sea.
And everywhere I journey,
my land journeys with me.
How to Make a Raft
You will need the following items:
canvas, tractor tire inner tubes,
twine, wire, sawed off oil barrels,
wooden planks, nails, cut up branches,
a back door, a compass, the end
of a rope, a final straw, to have
had it up to here. Aspirin, some
honey, a shot of cane aguardiente,
an ocean of hope, a cup of grace,
a hand, two arms, a thread, a chance,
sweat, tears, blood, gall, sugar,
no salt, bread, ingenuity, super-
human courage, your dog. Take
plenty of fresh water, a red cross,
a blue sky, a white flag, a sail,
a symbol, a word, a joke, a song,
a line of poetry--preferably Marti.
You'll need a sunny day, a starry
night, a good wind, a statue of
la Virgin de la Caridad del Cobre,
an olive branch, though a palm frond
may do. Take your birth certificate,
passport, marriage licence, diplomas--
you'll lose them at sea. A pad with
the telephone numbers of Uncle Tito,
Cousin Juanito, your niece Maria Elena--
you'll lose those too. Don't forget
your most cherished photographs.
Before you leave, give away or sell:
your dresser, bed, clothes, shoes,
appliances, paintings, plates, T.V.
Take only what fits inside. When
you build a raft, everything changes
forever. If you return, you’ll find little
of your former life. You”ll get used
to your new life. While in the water,
stay calm, watch the horizon, don't
bleed, don't think about what lurks
below, only what lurks behind. If
you make it, you're free. Muy bien.
The Raison d’Etre Sears
My mother could barely finish tying laces
or taming hair in ponytails whenever Dad
announced a trip to Sears. My sister and I
scrambled into the green Pontiac, perched
on the edge of the wide seat, and bounced
my patient father to distraction. At Sears
he searched for pliers, lightbulbs, or wire
that held our lives together, appliances
that blended or shook them clean. My sister
and I climbed onto shiny bikes, tried them
on for size. We freed plastic balls from their
metal cage, lobbed them like eggs in a narrow
aisle, kept an eye out for mean salesmen.
When we grew restless, we’d find my father
and drag him to a food stand in the store.
Placing my hands on warm glass that rose
at an angle above the counter, I’d gaze up
at heat lamps like suns hovering over mounds
of almonds and pecans, casting a bright yellow
glow over hills of cashews, Brazil nuts, shelled
peanuts, and a round little man with a metal
scoop in his hand. "What's your pleasure?"
he'd ask. Plate glass kept me from plunging
my arms and burying my nose into the salty
landscape. My father knew what we wanted.
For my mother, cashews. For us, pistachios,
the red ones and all they implied. The man
would pick up a brown paper bag, snap it open
like cracking a small whip, shove the scoop
into the red terrain, and tip a rumbling landslide
in. We each got our own. Walking past linens
and pool supplies, I'd pop a pistachio into my
mouth, lick the salt, edge a tooth in the parted
shell and split it, dropping empties back in the bag.
We drove home too busy to talk, caught in a rhythm
of crack shell nut, my sister playing the same
song, fingers reddening, lips and tongues flushing
brighter—salt crack spit chew the crispy skin,
the ripe taste of green earth. We entered our home
another hue, to my mother's frown, my father's
helpless shrug, blood red evidence everywhere.
As ordered, my sister and I washed our tinted
fingertips, faces grinning over the soapy suds.
We knew this glow would not wash off so fast.
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