I walk there & sit on a bench.
I watch her long bent back,
the bright purple cap
pulled over her short hair
as she hums something
I’m assuming
is blaring through her ear pods.
Probably Nina Simone.
Dre loves Ms. Nina.
Will play her when she misses her father.
Will play her when she’s angry.
Will play her when we see videos on social media
of another black boy shot another black girl pulled over
another kid in the Bronx stabbed outside a bodega.
Will play her while painting protest signs;
Dre plays Nina when two girls holding hands are jumped
or a kid who calls themselves them
is made fun of & it goes viral—
Dre turns to Nina.
Turns up “Mississippi Goddam.”
Me? I want to bang my fist. I want to scream
the world apart from the seams.
But Dre? She gets a glint in her eye
like she’s imagining she can repot us, all of us, onto a new planet
where we can grow with deep & understanding roots,
where we will rise & flourish into tree houses &
Nina will rain & Nina will breeze & Nina will be the sunshine;
I must make a noise at my imaginings
because Dre turns around, cocks her head,
pulls out her earbud & places it in my ear.
Goes right back to packing dirt around a bed of basil.
Birds flying high you know how I feel.
Camino Yahaira
Tía is angry whispering over the cordless phone again.
She steps onto the balcón as if the short distance
will stop me from overhearing.
When her call is done I go sit with her.
We rock in unison & don’t turn on the porch light
as darkness falls & fireflies flitter over us like incandescent halos.
Tía has never lied to me. From the beginning,
any questions I asked she answered.
Whether it was about sex, or boys, healing or the Saints.
I keep rocking next to her. Sometimes words
need time to form; the minutes like slabs
building a ramp out the mouth.
Tonight, Tía hums under her breath.
When she abruptly stops her rocking,
I slow my own chair’s rhythm.
The porch floorboards echo a creak,
& it feels like the night is making room
for whatever Tía has to say.
I smack a mosquito against my chest.
My own blood smears on my skin.
I’m surprised I didn’t notice the sting.
& yet I know,
whatever Tía is going to say
may not draw blood,
but I will feel it.
Tía says,
“The airline has offered money to preempt lawsuits.
A half-million-dollar advance to be split among dependents.
That was your Tío Jorge on the phone. This is complicated.”
Tía says,
“I never wanted to lie to you, mi’ja.
Your father was a complex man.
He had many pieces of himself, & many crossroads.”
Tía says,
“There is a girl in New York City, your same age.
Your same features. Your same father.
This girl was born two months after you were.”
Tía says,
“Your father married hers before he married yours.
You can apply for money as one of his dependents, but
Zoila, the woman he married, might try to fight your claim.”
Tía says,
“She, the wife, has connections at the consulate.
She’s made it difficult for your father to request you.
He needed her citizenship papers to help obtain your visa.”
Tía says
a lot more words, but I barely hear any of them.
I have a sister. I have a sister. I have a sister.
There is another person besides Tía of my blood in the world.
A truth
you did not want
to know
can rot & grow mold
in the pit
of your stomach,
can sour
every taste
you’ve ever had,
can cast a stench
so bad you forget
you’ve ever known
a sweet thing.
A truth you did not want
can put a collar around your neck
& lead you into the dark,
the places where all your
monsters live.
There is another girl
on this planet
who is my kin.
My father
lied to me
every day of my life.
I am not alone
but the only family
I have besides Tía
are all strangers to me.
I want to put my fingers
against my sister’s cheek.
I want to put my face
in her neck & ask
if she hurts the way I do.
Does she know of me?
Would my father have told her?
Did she share
in his confidences?
While the whole while he lied to me?
Or is she the only one
who would understand
my heart right now?
If I find her
would I find a breathing piece
of myself I had not known
was missing?
On Tía’s altar, there are all sorts of items.
a shot glass half-full of rum, nine vases of water.
There’s a bright bouquet of yellow flowers;
A small cup of fresh coffee on the floor. Surrounding the altar
are photos; a black & white photo of her parents: her father,
the fisherman, & my grandmother,
a washerwoman from west of the island. My mother’s
smiling face smiles up from the ground as well. Several
great-aunts & -uncles pose stiffly in formal clothing.
& underneath the white tablecloth
is a stack of bills I’ve snuck onto the altar.
My school tuition is one. It arrives every June,
& Papi pays it off in July. It’s the charge for my first-quarter
schooling so I can attend classes in September.
The pesitos people pay Tía are not enough.
My heart thumps hard.
I press a hand to keep it inside.
How does an overeducated orphan
become an obstetrician
in a place where most girls
her age become pregnant
before tenth grade? But now
money is owed to me.
Tía says it could be mine.
How does a girl—how do I—
finish high school,
go to college in the US?
How do I watch
every single one of my dreams
flutter like a ribbon of bubbles
pop pop popping in the air. I don’t.
“Tía, about the visa & the money,
Papi said my papers were in order.”
Tía is cleaning red kidney beans for a moro.
She nods but does not say anything.
“Would I still be able to go to the States?
Tío Jorge could take me in, right?”
Tía’s hands pause sifting through the bowl.
“Your father was not bringing you on his papers, mi’ja,
he was bringing you on his wife’s.
It was with their combined income, as well as her citizenship,
that your papers would
be approved.
She would have to sponsor you
for you to attain a visa & the ability to be a resident.
From what I know, Zoila is not a forgiving woman.”
& I think about this wife. I think
I am not a forgiving woman either.
“What’s his other daughter’s name?” I ask.
Tía fishes through the beans, picking out
the old & wrinkled ones that hold no nutrients.
She is silent in her assessment of the good & bad,
the ones that are allowed to stay, the ones that must be tossed.
I imagine she is plucking through her words with that same scrutiny.
“Yahaira. Your sister’s name is Yahaira.”
Twenty-Two Days After
Still reeling about this sister about the money.
about my father’s secrets, I stop by Carline’s house the next day.
The baby is asleep & Carline’s eyes are tired,
but when she hugs me, I almost let myself cry
in the warmth of her arms even though
another crying child is the last thing she needs.
We sit on the couch & she does not let go
of my hand. “You already seem like a mother,”
I say, & she laughs, but I’m being honest.
“My breasts ache & I’m always thirsty.
Camino, a group of girls came by to see the baby;
they told me they’ve seen you at the beach with El Cero.
No me digas que es verdad.” I squeeze her hand
before letting it go. “Camino, I would be the last person
to judge you. But El Cero is dangerous.”
I nod. Of course he is.
She is not saying anything I don’t know.
There is a reason my father paid him to stay away.
There is a reason he keeps circling back to me.
But how can I explain to Carline
something she cannot help me with?
It’s just like with Tía; everyone has advice to give,
but all I have to offer her are more worries in response.
The baby’s wail stops me from having to say anything.
“Just be careful, Camino.
Now come & greet your nephew.”
I ask her if she’s given him a name.
“The old women have told me not to,
since his breathing is still so shallow.
But I’ve decided to call him Luciano.”
I hold my best friend’s babe, &
I hold her hand as well.
He is premature, but he is loved,
& I know both Carline & I are praying
even though it may seem unlikely,
that that love will be enough.
When I next see El Cero in the neighborhood, I treat him like a stray;
feed him crumbs of placating attention
that I hope will make him more pet than predator,
but will remind him not to howl at my door.
He always comes back. Pacing near me as I try to ignore him.
Today Vira Lata followed me to the beach.
He sits on my clothes in the warm sun
& keeps a lazy eye on El Cero. He is not
a good guard dog, but I’m still glad not to be alone.
I am packing up my things & El Cero speaks to me.
“Someone asked me for your address recently.
An old friend of your father’s. At least he said he was a friend.
But I don’t think he was a good man. I told him I didn’t know.”
I hear the other words El Cero does not say: I can give your address
to anyone, I can call attention to you, what protection,
what protection, what protection is a loosely locked gate
& no father or man or trained sharp-fanged hound
to stop anyone from breaking entering.
El Cero cocks his head when I do not respond to him.
He lets a whistle loose through his teeth.
From the clearing, the one that I’ve walked since I was a child,
an older man comes forth. He has a scar above one eye
& smells like an open sewer that’s been sprayed with cologne.
“This is the girl, the one you were asking about.
Camino, this is a friend of your father’s.”
El Cero hesitates for a second & then grasps my arms.
The man looks me up & down, rubbing his chin.
“I have a few questions, mi amor. Come sit in my car with me.”
& all of a sudden I am not sad, or afraid.
I am rage bow-tied as a girl;
I unfurl, full of fury. I am yelling & I could not tell you what.
I wrench away from El Cero & push the man back hard;
my quick motion excites Vira Lata, who begins barking,
drawing the men’s attention as I sprint away.
Angry tears, the first I’ve shed, stream down my face.
I feel as if I swam too close to a stingray;
my skin vibrates. Electric to the touch.
I turn my back on the beach. I run all the way home.
I rush home only to remember tonight is a ceremonial night.
Tía taught me to dance at the ceremonies.
To the drums of the santero. She taught me
a person moves not only with their body but with their spirit.
To the santero’s chanting & the chanting of the others.
I watched Tía spin, the colorful beads
around her neck wet with sweat.
Oh! How her waist bent like a willow tree
during the onslaught of a storm.
I learned how low to the ground my knees could get,
how my back could roll & my chest could heave,
my wrapped hair was a plush throne
for the spirits to reign from.
Everyone knew this was a house blessed by saints. & although
a lot of people don’t fuck with that kind of thing here,
they were always asking for Tía’s remedios & jarabes;
for advice & prayer; for assistance with birthing their babies
when the doctors were too expensive, or when they’d been told,
“There’s just nothing else we can do.”
& when Tía hosts a ceremony, the crowd outside is legion.
She has a touch, they say, she has the Saints’ ears.
Tonight the santero comes, & the practitioners do too.
In our small yard out back the drummers form a circle;
although we are grieving, the songs spring forth full of light.
There is something holy in the night air.
I push the air with my body as if pushing El Cero & his friends.
I pray myself free of pain as I spin in the circle.
I pray myself free of fear as I throw my arms out wide.
I pray myself free with head tosses, with bracelets jangling,
I pray myself free.
Camino Yahaira
Everyone in the house
is feeling some type of way.
& since it’s only me & Mami,
what I mean is we are tiptoeing around.
Mami pads through the house
writing checks for bills
I didn’t even know we had.
Mami is spending money
on a promise; she is spending money
we don’t even truly have yet.
She ignores work, forgets appointments.
I do not recognize this reckless woman
who has taken residence in my mother’s body.
But I also don’t want her to leave
a place I know is safe. So I say nothing.
I make her lunch she doesn’t touch,
& I climb through the Johnsons’ window
when I need to hear noise around me.
If tension is a winged monster,
it’s cast its feathers
on the roof of my house.
Twenty-Three Days After
Now that school’s done, I walk the streets without purpose.
I walk far north along Riverside Drive.
Sometimes I walk down to Lincoln Center
so I can sit by the fountain.
I avoid dog shit & the people hanging on their stoops;
I ignore ice-cream trucks & hurled catcalls.
I put one foot in front of the other,
& every evening I land at Dre’s front door.
Dr. Johnson has wet hands from washing dishes;
she sprays me with water when gesturing me in.
She wraps an arm around my shoulders.
Presses her chin to the top of my head.
I stand there for a second, then step away.
It is nice to be in a home
that feels the same way it did a month ago.
To eat dinner that has no sour reminders.
I let the noises of a whole family lull me into sleep.
Dr. Johnson asks
Yaya, honey, have you been sleeping?
I answer
Kinda, Dr. Johnson
Dr. Johnson asks
Do you want to talk about it?
I answer
Nah, Dr. Johnson
Dr. Johnson asks
Have you talked to anyone about your grief?
I answer
Thanks for the meat loaf, Dr. Johnson
Dr. Johnson asks
Maybe you & your mami?
I answer
Dr. Johnson, I really cannot do this.
Dr. Johnson asks
But couldn’t you all give those meetings another try?
I answer
I think I’ll go home now.
I never had meat loaf
until the Johnsons moved next door.
It’s kinda like a pastelón,
& kinda like a meatball on steroids.
At least once a week
I used to eat at the Johnsons’,
even though Mami fussed.
She said the neighborhood would think
she wasn’t feeding me.
& I remember thinking Mami was silly
until Doña Gonzales from upstairs
asked me if I was allergic to Mami’s cooking.
But besides the busybodies, I’ve loved
that the Johnsons never minded my presence,
& Dre & I would watch TV after dinner,
or play with her mother’s makeup.
But although I love the Johnsons,
I’m not sure I can go back there.
I can’t look at Dr. Johnson with her soft, sad eyes.
Despite the relief I felt before in their home
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