1976
How was I,
on my knees,
on the subway seat,
hands cusped
around my eyes,
my face pressed
against the glass,
flickers of light
slicing through the dark
NYC tunnels?
Who was that boy,
dragging his exhausted
immigrant mother
to the 168th subway station
on a Sunday afternoon
for round-trip rides
on the downtown local
1 or AA,
opened mouth,
eyes beaming
at the graffitied wonder
making its way
into the garbage strewn platform,
as his little brown hand
slipped from her little brown hand?
No Suicides
For Keika
For the broken glass
and the angry father,
for the swinging belt,
for the might-have-beens
and the spilled water,
for the shattered coffee table,
for the radio's extension cord
and the bleeding knee,
for love,
for the tall, blond officer
and the Puerto Rican social worker
Ms. Moroney,
for the divorce,
for the lost country,
for the bicentennial
of my birth place
that can never be home,
for the beauty of my two lands,
for the beautiful people
who think they are ugly,
for the mornings I like
what I see in the mirror,
and the nights I don't look up,
for love,
for the smell of mami's hair
when she arrived from the factory
and each woman I've called baby
after emerging from her armpit,
for every woman that didn't love me back,
for the times I fucked up
because I didn't have the courage to leave
and the times we got it right
with just a look,
for the daughters that may never come
but I can't forget,
and the so desired baby boy
that didn't help Emma and Teofilo,
for all the mistakes,
for their little daughter in pink pajamas,
for the dolls that surround her,
for her searching look at the camera
for love.
Copyright © 2005 Carlos Hiraldo