More Guate Poems

I wrote this one after visiting the Hospital. Last Summer was my first time working there and believe me when I say carrying a hundred cinder blocks up a mountain side on the Construction work team, or picking 300lbs of coffee with the Coffee work team is far easier than sitting in the hospital with all the sick, disabled, and abandoned people trying to have a beautiful experience some place so intrinsically sad. It's one of those feelings that kind of sticks to your soul. So when we had our poetry workshop and I set the kids to writing it was still on my mind, then something strange happened. The sky turned yellow. I was convinced that it was going to storm, but actually my host mom says that it's a sign that it won't rain for the next 10-15 days, that we're in some kind of summer stasis before the winter starts up again.

Sepia Afternoon
(For Oscar)

I felt the light shift
the sudden coolness in the breeze
and I thought of you
in your courtyard
surrounded by the orange blossoms
you would never see
would you be chilly
or would the wind be like the
familiar caress of the woman
you spoke of from your other lifetime
the one where you were whole
or closer to it,
a member of a family
long since disappeared
do you dream of them still
their faces the only images
left to play upon
the blank screen of your eyelids
as you slide beads onto string
do you number them
like days
and wonder
how many lifetimes
are left for you
to pay for your mistakes
as I wonder
will I be sent the bill for mine
does it bother you to never see my face
or it enough to recognize
my voice and the warmth of me
sitting beside you
in our sepia afternoon
you with your blindness
confined to your eyes
and me with mine
impairing my ability
to see beyond the wicked
shape of things
the way we all conspire
to perpetuate
the systems that pin us all in place
like frozen constellations
and our stars are so far apart
it seems impossible
that we would even coincide
if only to share a moment
in this sepia afternoon
already a forgotten photo
of a place I don't often dare to remember
because to remember is to admit
that I am neither as good or as noble
as I would like to believe
nor as worthy of the privilege
to squeeze your hand
before I say goodbye
and walk away from you
again.


Since the start of the trip I have been thinking a lot about happiness, partly because in almost all of the reflections some kid mentions that they are amazed at how happy people are despite the poverty. And I never quite know how to respond to this because I feel like they are missing a piece. So here is what I wrote.

My Smile
Please don't mistake
this smile
for happiness
I smile because
I have nothing left
so here is my silent act of
revolution
the waving flag
of my indestructible nation
Proof
that there is a part of me
that will never be colonized.
Strip me of my heart language
outlaw my cultural existence
use my own fabric
to brand my tribe
and then commence your genocide
Yes there are days
when I will cry
when I'll be forced
to run and hide
to fight and die
to wonder why
but when I can
I try to smile
to make sure I have
one thing left
that you can't own
to buy or sell.

This one I wrote for my homestay mom.

Casa de la Carola

eggs and black beans
pan frances and hot coffee
always buen provecho
when I come to her home
siempre bienvenidos
I never feel alone
because within these blue walls,
hung with portrait, sheltering a courtyard
full of turtles
I find my family
see something of my grandmother
in the wisdom of her hand
shaping tortillas
hear echos of my dad
in her laughter
when she tells me dirty jokes
there is something universal
in the way she heaps my plate full
and demands I eat it all.
It's the kiss on my cheek to day good night
the cup of hot chamomile
to sooth an upset stomach.
When I walk the streets
I am a stranger in a strange land
but when I'm here,
I'm home.
I'm loved.