In April 2016 Mayra Santos Febres told me to start writing again; to write for real. Tenemos que escribir. These days I can't stop. Entonces esto es para ti Mayra - unas palabritas imperfectas - con mis gracias y con cariño. #QueNoSeAcabenLasPalabras
for Mayra
2:37pm or what you do with your stories*
you worry you have no imagination no worlds outside your own
that your stories are a depth too shallow to trouble
you un/convince yourself that no one wants this thing
your heart
dripping with blood and sea and salt
heavy with ink
wrapped in tobacco leaves and cane flowers
and you give it away
you place it on the stoop of the tenement on garden street
you put it in the center of the four projects
you dip it in the hudson in the east river in the bay
you take it to vega baja to el cantin to the waterfall your mother never saw
you wash it under the rusty drip dripping from your faucet
you bury it with your father
you offer it to your sister to sacrifice to her fires
you give it to her son who makes it beautiful again
you feed it to your lover and wait for a response
you dig a hole in your yard and kick it in
your drive for hours to clear turquoise lakes and fling it you don't look back
you hack at it with a machete
you tend to it like a wound
you raise it to the stars and show it to the gods
you boil it with mint and drink it burning your throat and thoughts
you climb up to the roof and toss it to the wires wishing it would swing like sneakers
you relinquish it to the roaches to carry away
you fold and shove it between the seats of a greyhound bus going south
you light it inhale twice and pass it while you wait for the empire state building to flicker your curfew
you submerge it in your cup of coffee and stir it into your rice
you let your neighbor borrow it and watch her give it away
you let your brother take it and watch him trade it for rocks
you let his daughter use it as paint
your let your other brother spit on it and curse you dead
you read about writers and read writers and you wonder who will teach you what stories matter
you thrash the keys on your typewriter
you stave off migraines
you wage wars in your mind
you slapbox ghosts in the corner
you play wallsies at the welfare office
all the while asking
who is this for who am i for
[east lansing]
*As I reread this piece this afternoon I felt a part of Alexis Pauline Gumbs' Spill move in me. Our bodies know how deeply we need the words/work of Black women. How powerful that book which enumerates ways of being Black and a woman and femme. How powerful that form which stays with you long after, submerged in your knowing. Alexis, mil gracias y mil mas.