Hello Friends,
Today’s poem by Tatiana Figueroa Ramirez appears in Split This Rock’s The Quarry Social Justice Poetry Database. Content warning: Today’s poem references forced sterilization.
—Ællen
Today’s poem by Tatiana Figueroa Ramirez appears in Split This Rock’s The Quarry Social Justice Poetry Database. Content warning: Today’s poem references forced sterilization.
—Ællen
En la Casa de Mami Tita
I wake up to the alarm clocks
of cocks & gallinas struggling
for their corner of the callejón.
Step out
on the preheated concrete.
Stray kittens cross my path.
I evade chicken excretions.
Lizards stand still
as I walk the length of three houses.
A pale jade home smiles at me in the sun
a ramp welcoming me onto her balcón.
I remember her skin as guayaba
with steps signaling the start to her porch.
Her front door is blessed
with the smell of fresh habichuelas.
Open windows & curtains flirt
with the morning breeze.
I enter home & hear
songs of small white houses & jíbaros.
Songs of forgotten writers & my mother’s voices.
Clanking pots & a cucharón serve me a meal
only this home knows.
Metal cups keep water cool.
A ceiling fan fights off mosquitos.
Chanclas gently shuffle over
linoleum covered concrete floors
the start to a tale on the tip of her tongue.
Mami Tita once told me
“You know, they operated on me?
That’s why I only had Teddy, Cuco, & Taty.
After that, I couldn’t have any more kids,
but, at least, it was free & I didn’t die.”
She said this with rice sticking to her lips
& caldo dripping from her bowl.
Outside, cars honk past,
neighbors yell from porch to porch,
& chickens cluck along.
Inside, I spend daylight listening
to songs I’ll never hear again,
tasting food I hope I’ll learn to cook,
& waiting for shuffling chanclas to sit
& tell me a story once more.
■
I wake up to the alarm clocks
of cocks & gallinas struggling
for their corner of the callejón.
Step out
on the preheated concrete.
Stray kittens cross my path.
I evade chicken excretions.
Lizards stand still
as I walk the length of three houses.
A pale jade home smiles at me in the sun
a ramp welcoming me onto her balcón.
I remember her skin as guayaba
with steps signaling the start to her porch.
Her front door is blessed
with the smell of fresh habichuelas.
Open windows & curtains flirt
with the morning breeze.
I enter home & hear
songs of small white houses & jíbaros.
Songs of forgotten writers & my mother’s voices.
Clanking pots & a cucharón serve me a meal
only this home knows.
Metal cups keep water cool.
A ceiling fan fights off mosquitos.
Chanclas gently shuffle over
linoleum covered concrete floors
the start to a tale on the tip of her tongue.
Mami Tita once told me
“You know, they operated on me?
That’s why I only had Teddy, Cuco, & Taty.
After that, I couldn’t have any more kids,
but, at least, it was free & I didn’t die.”
She said this with rice sticking to her lips
& caldo dripping from her bowl.
Outside, cars honk past,
neighbors yell from porch to porch,
& chickens cluck along.
Inside, I spend daylight listening
to songs I’ll never hear again,
tasting food I hope I’ll learn to cook,
& waiting for shuffling chanclas to sit
& tell me a story once more.
■