Clap When You Land(22)

Tía settles Carline more comfortably

on the birthing bed I’ve made. She guides Carline to breathe, to push, to wait. I set thick towels on the floor.

Nelson rushes to help me;

his fingers jerk sharply as we straighten the space.

Fear clouds the room, a thick fog,

but Tía’s calm voice is a flame cutting through it.

I switch places with Tía, & my arms grow heavy where I sit behind Carline, holding her up; I am sweating almost as hard as she is.

I try to breathe deeply as I hold my best friend up.

I try not to think of all the ways I know premature labor can go wrong.

Tía is red in the face & her eyes are weary, although you can’t tell by her steady movements.

“One last hard push, ni?a, the baby is crowning.”

Carline doesn’t seem to have any more energy.

She is panting hard, her eyes squeezed shut, & I am worried if this is not the last push— “Come now, Carline,” I whisper.

“You did not carry this baby all these months, not to see it into the light. Con fuerza!”

I wipe the sweaty hair at her forehead,

& she weeps into the crook of my arm, but she pushes. & pushes. & pushes: the small body plops down into Tía’s waiting hands like a wrinkled fruit from a shaken tree.

The baby boy is tiny. Quiet.





Tía is a woman woven of miracles; the reason people who are afraid of her

& her magic still call for the worst emergencies is because Tiá’s a woman who speaks to the dead, who negotiates with spirits, who loosens their fingers when they clutch around the neck of someone she wants to live— It doesn’t always work—I know personally

sometimes Tía is too late; sometimes the request is too great & Tía’s bargaining not enough; sometimes Tía is only a healer woman with calloused hands, a commanding voice, with ointments & tea, this woman who holds a baby not her own,

says, “Ven mi’jo ven.”





Sometimes, Tía is more: she calls forward his life when it would retreat, & the room holds its breath as if we can gift it to the child.

& Carline weeps, & Tía prays & curses & coaxes a child to breathe breathe breathe

pressing her two fingers against his chest beating his heart for him oblivious to the slick of his body & blue of his lips to the collective sob of the room

to the spirits who would greet him on their side of the veil.

Tía takes air into her mouth

& pushes it into the child’s mouth:

does this again & again

from her body to his until it seems impossible this bringing forth of life

when death is so steadily stalking into the room & then the baby inhales a deep gasp just as the electricity returns to the barrio & the small house becomes filled, brilliant bright.





I have been so entrenched in death, & drowning, & funerals, that this seems an amazing thing

to see this babe clutch at the air.

To see this child who should not be here not only here but here.

Through my own tears, I see all of us are crying.

& tired Carline holds the child close to her breasts & grips my hand.

Tía gives instructions of herb teas to brew, ointments to make, & advice on latching.

She’ll come back if Carline needs help swaddling.

Maman hugs me to her chest as we are leaving; she says thank you & thrusts some pesos at me.

She says she will wash the sheets & return them.

Carline holds her child; Nelson holds his hat.

The old man does not say a word,

but tears trail down his cheeks as he walks us to the door.





Camino Yahaira


They’ve made a memorial

outside of Papi’s billiards.

Under the green lights,

where the bouncers stand,

there’s a blown-up picture

of Papi smiling,

holding a glass (of what I imagine is whiskey) out to the camera.

Dre insisted on coming with me, & she is a sure presence behind me.

I kneel & touch my hand

to the gifts people left in Papi’s honor: flower wreaths, so many flowers, although Papi always said

“Why pay money

for a thing that will die in a week?”

The knickknacks build a lump the size of a billiard cube inside my throat: A lottery ticket,

a bottle of shoeshine polish, a small Dominican flag,

a baseball card of Robinson Canó, a little figurine

of a man dressed in red & black.

In history we learned

the Greeks made sure to die with a coin in their pocket

to ensure their spirit could pay for their way to the other side; remembering this, I give Papi the only kind of safe passage I have to offer.

I kneel on the cold, hard concrete & fish the chess piece from my pocket.

Set her, the polished black piece, right by a burning candle:

a queen to guard him on his way.





Papi’s billiards has always been a gathering place, & as I stand outside of it I remember my last time here. It was after a match; Papi took me to his pool hall to celebrate.