Omar Cruz, nuestro colaborador, nos presenta una selección de poemas de Lola Rosario, quien es poeta, declamadora, periodista independiente, traductora y defensora de la cultura puertorriqueña. Su primer poemario, «Daughter de Borikén» (Editorial Pulpo) acaba de salir en agosto del 2024. Sus poemas han sido publicados en «Thin Air Magazine», «Angel City Review», «The Acentos Review«, «La Libreta.online», «Red Sugarcane Press» and «Hound Magazine». Su obra periodística se encuentra en «Prism Reports», «TodasPR», «NACLA», «HipLatina», «Green Left» (Australia), «Latina Media», y «Palabra», entre otros. Natural de la Ciudad de Nueva York, en noviembre de 2021 se mudó a su matria ancestral de Borikén. Lola vive en la joya del pueblo costero de Loíza.
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Rooted Like The Ceiba (Part II)
Decimos que la Ceiba es / el árbol de la vida / sus enormes ramas reaching / toward el cielo / reminding us such a place / exists / even if we don’t really / believe that nonsense / because there is so much / suffering / on this archipelago / and why are we always expected to be so / resilient / all the time? / siempre bregando / que si el gobierno corrupto / the staggering debt / que si los huracanes / y la ayuda que nunca llega / que si los politiqueros con sus promesas / mejor decir - sus mentiras / en este país / we are constantly / seeking reminders of our / worth / and of our capacity / to self govern / otro plebiscito / pointless, when we remain / under the stranglehold / of el imperio yanqui / still, we rather forget all of this / aunque sea por unos / momentos / let us return to / the majesty / this tree of life / su generosa copa / branches and leaves / con sus aromatic petals / releasing ese perfume particular / no la de una colonia / rather this wondrous being / carrying meaning / grandeur / strength / unity / its immense trunk / a terrestrial plane / conectándonos us to nuestra matria de Boriken / no matter how far away we go / sin importar si somos / diaspora-displaced / or native-born / every part of la Ceiba reminding us / never forget / we are rooted to this place / we carry esta tierra / en nuestra sangre.
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I Can’t Even Buy Groceries Without Having Flashbacks
I thought I saw my attacker as I stood at the supermarket checkout.
My body froze as my brain attempted to recollect his facial features, the frame
of his build, his hair.
But he was walking too fast for me to be sure.
And I didn’t dare try to look at his hands.
I kept hoping it was just a ghost or another bad dream.
Or both.
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Belated Tears
Abuela nunca lloró.
Not when abuelo - her partner of 58 years - passed away.
Not when her youngest son gave his life to the bottle.
Not when AIDS took her eldest granddaughter.
She shed not one tear when her eldest grandson was murdered just down the road from her modest home en su pueblito en los campos de Puerto Rico.
Ella no derramó una sola lágrima cuando su hija más pequeña moved to Gringolandia.
All of this makes me wonder what she felt when they returned her daughter Eva from Philly, across an ocean, back home in a body bag.
Decades of pain must have welled up in her.
Not only for Titi Eva but for our entire familia, our ancestors, and herself.
She must have needed to unleash a lifetime’s river of pain.
I wish I could wipe away the tears abuela never parted with.
I wish I could tell her que sí, las mujeres guerreras también lloran.
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