Clap When You Land(25)

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.