Bloodline

Beet juice, bruise-red,
sloshed around in its jar
every time I opened her fridge.

Mamá ironed all the fine linen suits
"So Abuela can always look pretty
during the time she has left."

Final days were given to balconies,
rocking to and fro in August heat,
and transfusions at Centro Médico.

Gagged and bound to deliverance,
you were networked to electronic saviors.
We chose not to bring you back

to his Agent Orange pension that drowned 'Nam in Don Q,
to the children's children's children unloaded onto you,
to your mango tree that still splits the sidewalk in two.

Alma Mater

I once walked her century-old halls,
terrified and proud.
Pockets of rainwater swelled walls
and mold made us all sick.
But she was ours!

She's been in the news again.
The books they carry?
No match for tear gas and rubber bullets.
¡Dé gloria al luchador,
honra de la Universidad!

Some will shoulder the burden.
The rest head to Ocean Park
to sip beer and sunbathe.
Boricua, you have forgotten to whom you owe it all.

Satellite

  
Shine on, Polaris!
    and once again
    you’re off in your own world
    careening through the universe

I’ll hitch a ride on a shooting star
    that knows my whispered wish
    to emit the illumination that persists
    a voyager, even as I am deceased

But my words are not like yours 
    mine live briefly, with little intensity
    yet their demise is a brilliant blaze
    as they collide against the atmosphere

I don’t want to be little more than
    a quiet moon
    revolving around you
    basking in borrowed light

For Luis

I can see what never was
        (nor will ever be)
all we could have had
        (we could have had it all)

the sandy-haired kids with mud-caked jeans
hiding among the plantain fields
bare feet slipping on the Toro Negro river stones
lulled to sleep by the coquí

far away from my city lights
you could have given me
morning mist clinging to the mountainside

but there is no quaint rustic lifestyle
for us

those thousands of miles between us
insignificant,
they dissolve into nothing

with every phone call
we dodge bullets
both thinking it
neither speaking it
always on the tips of our tongues
but we bite down on them
        (we bite hard)

You’re hoping I’m miserable
I’m wishing you weren’t happy

Love to Hate

I find my bipolarity very peculiar.

I harp on and on about how I'm tough (i.e., dead inside). Seeing me cry is punishable by death. It's not that I find anything wrong with being emotional, but if I'm emotional, it just makes me feel weak and manipulable.

All it takes is one heartbreak. I forced myself not to suffer over it. In my haste to take shortcuts and recuperate, it was like I had mended my heart with substandard glue.

"You used to be so much kinder," a friend once said to me. "What happened to you?"

I didn't reply. I don't approach the subject. My defenses are bullet-proof when it comes to harsh words, criticism, and mean-spirited gossip. But all it takes is one little question, one tiny observation, about how I've changed: security breach.

"Why are you so full of hatred?"

That did it. Within a single second, I was sobbing. Hating myself for doing it, but unable to stop.

Hatred's a funny thing. You hold on to it long enough, it becomes a part of you- making it all the more difficult to let go of.