(sing) Mama Mama I’m sick in bed
She called the doctor and the doctor said:
Let’s get the rhythm of the
Let’s get the rhythm of the (sing)
The scabs on my scars are beautiful
This is how I want my history to be read
Buried beneath ground and dead
Cannot loosen the noose around my head
Boriken screams chaotic symphony
Here goes my epiphany
Taino, charcoaled skin
Forefather to the soul within
Chafed, bruised and battered
His daughter finds him
As her breath is lost
And I pay the cost
Or the price
Choose the words that suffice
His decision sacrificed my childhood
Bent backwards any dream of being normal
Shot down by ephemerality
Bruised, battered, frightened
Words escape her
Love corresponded by hope
Turn magnetic skin, bone, fist
This is mother’s kiss
End the pain here
Against the line that marks your birth
Caesarian section from one axis to the next
Umbilical chord strapped
And I can’t breathe
Is it what it seems
She gets burned again
Maintaining her filial duties
Was she born to lie upon blankets?
Pillows perched behind her back
Overstimulated by television programs
Numbing her mind and senses?
This is the consensus
We’ll hide, masquerade ourselves behind shame.
Color the exterior hues of guilty.
Etch the contours in lies.
Shade the edges in Aguadilla sunshine.
Climbing the hills of Moca
To discover dead ancestors.
Mutilated self effaced by colonialist propaganda,
Slander, tinted by managerial ideologies confiscating
Pride in the form of land. Hope with a periphery mirroring
Cut the rope
Loosen the strings
Hold up his head
Tap against his aorta
There’s no exhale.
Only life in the features he’s left behind.
These are my eyes—
The scabs on these scars are beautiful.
They are, after all, how history is written.
La Poeta Guerrera
March 1, 2008// 2:20 p.m.