Tag Archives: Poem

Latine Poets

Cultivo

Cultivo

by Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

once mourning doves   made me think

of graveyards

 

today        they peck     at weed seeds

clean        my land

 

the oldest on record     lived 30 years    and 4 months

from the time          it was tagged

 

until         it was shot

how many mates           did it mourn

 

American toads       breed

at the neighbor’s pond

 

I wring       laundry     to hang     on a clothesline

mostly black

 

when I was eight

a man trapped me    in the stairwell

 

to our New York        apartment

the note from his pocket     loose-leaf cutout

 

blue ink print      said I was       beautiful

a scalpel      in his pocket

 

how many      would die

in a war        without weapons

 

I was born        in the middle

of an Andean hurricane     the first time

 

I saw mamá      her blue eyes

reflected green            from the flame

 

of a candle    the last time   in Florida

her eyes         were shut

 

yesterday       Aaron and I      planned

a garden         for our new         Connecticut home

 

asparagus and blueberries can’t be harvested

for two years

 

seeds must avoid      hickory taproots

cilantro      has to be        direct seeded

 

doesn’t like       to be moved

my older sister bought           her first house

 

after med school

lived there               twenty years

 

before renting it out            I’ve moved

twenty times       from rental to rental

 

clouds dissipate        on our ridge

we buy spades      trowels

 

pruners         window sheers

fog on the trees        lingers

 

coats        the open grass

droplets      vaporize       burn the fog

 

how does one quench         an instinct

to bolt

 

Copyright 2021 Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

From All Were Limones (The Word Works, 2025); originally published in Shennandoah, Spring 2021

Used by permission of the author.
Latine Poets

Snow on Port-au-Prince: A Dirge

Snow on Port-au-Prince: A Dirge

by Ines P. Rivera-Prosdocimi

Snow covers Port-au-Prince.
At dawn, you cover the trees, the eyelids and lips
of the sleeping and those who wait.
The neighborhood priest lies quietly; a mob fights
over him, over his arms fixed and crossed over
his chest. His purple mouth holds the names
of their dead. And the concrete crucifix still sits,
a black monument within the rubble. There will be
more bodies to burn and bury. This one is
one more. Don’t be afraid of death, Anna sings.

Papa repeats Haitians have always had dignity.
They are not ashamed of being black
like most Dominicans. At dawn, Papa sits rocking
before the TV, my god, my god, as a boy
spreads his arms to the sun; his snow covered limbs.
The neighborhood priest lies quietly; a mob fights
for his soul. In the Caribbean we bury our dead
quickly, knowing coffins don’t preserve a thing.
Don’t be afraid of death, Anna sings.

Snow dust covers Port-au-Prince.
At Dawn, you cover us. You cover
our bodies and rest in our mouths. You cover
our babies. You cover our concrete castles
now fallen, and our streets. You bury
our playgrounds, and our children’s children.
You bury the orange of the flamboyan trees,
and all of the colors that are Haiti. And you cover
this holy man we cannot burn or bury,
and so we sing his name. Don’t be afraid
of death, Anna sings and sings. Brothers,
the body is still, the soul in our mouths.

Used by permission of the author.
Latine Poets

Surrogate Twins

Surrogate Twin

by Ines P. Rivera-Prosdocimi

After my twin, my next love was a kindergarten boy.
Lawrence with his white hair and white grin
as he stood in the corner peeking at me
as I peed to show him we were blood.
Our hands were the same size, though different
colors, and we fought like we liked running
or story books, or sticking our tongues out
at the girls who  found it fun to collect clovers.
We told each other those things we keep—
if our twin sisters died, we’d die too,
and take all the maps in the map room to find
our souls. He may not remember
the way he traced my hand forever,
or how I said God gave the teacher’s aide cancer.
I wish I could say, last I heard, my buddy Lawrence…
but truth is, the day before he moved,
he held a clip knife to my neck, then leaned in,
put his warm forehead against me.
We were six or seven. A dusky afternoon.
A long silence before we both took a breath.

Used by permission of the author.
Latine Poets

Unbound

Unbound

by Shakira R. Perez

In this life, there is no room for me.
No room for dark skin, tangled hair and romantic accents.
No room for bedroom eyes, infectious laughter and bare shoulders.
No room for spiritual warriors, coconut shells and omens.
No room for brujeria, palo santo and mal de ojo.
No room for the rogue, rebellious or the raunchy.

So you set rules.

Because you are afraid.

Afraid that even the darkest skin will emit the brightest light.
Afraid that your husband will lose himself in my magic
Afraid that I am protected by ancestral blessings and an army of angels.
Afraid that I will make you see yourself for who you really are
Afraid that what you despise about me is what you wished you loved about yourself.

So you cage me in and limit the sky.
But little do you know that within this cage,
I am free.

Free
to dream of galaxies and supernovas,
  to remember that I was chosen,
    to heal from others and heal myself,
      to seek God’s face,
        to live.

You can’t contain me.

I am too much for this world.

(2021)

Used by permission of the author.
Latine Poets

Forage

Forage

by Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

I turn clay soil, mound rocks,
squeeze grubs with my fingers.
My spade, the soil, a rasp.
A dry northeast heat wave.

When I was five, Mamá chopped
my hair. Niña salvaje, wild child,
always in a tangle. Holes in your jeans,
grass stains on your sweaters.

Through my hair, wind, dust, twigs.

Impatient bumblebees,
you know we’ll have flowers.

I pull quack grass,
plant deep-rooted cowpeas, mustard,
crimson clover.

Watch for the stealth
of a screech owl in flight.

Write a letter
to my dead mamá.

How does one awaken
this conflicted land?

Last night— a black bear
in the neighbor’s pool.
Last night, I almost held berries
for it in my hands.

 

Copyright 2019 Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

From All Were Limones (The Word Works, 2025); originally published in The Cincinnati Review, Volume 16.2, 2019.

Used by permission of the author.
Latine Poets

Slapping Bones

Slapping Bones

by Ines P. Rivera-Prosdocimi

For Julian Ramirez

In a house whose writer disappeared,
cluttered by clothes hangers,
pads he’d stitch into shoulder seams
& the roosters his boss nurtured
for the cockfights, he’d tell me stories
of el campo, where the flamboyans
sat apart & cane stretched out for miles.
Backroads where you could breathe,
bachata’s beat like a distant drum
leading you. The pain in those songs
felt good that last night we were innocent.
He made a cat a paper cup shirt.
I pushed the cuticles of his left foot,
cutting nails that’d snap—and—fly.
Frank Reyes sang Vine a decirte adios
when we took our dominos out,
smacked one after the other
on the concrete floor, looking out
for the double-six promising to come;
each black pip that stared us in the face.

(2019)

Used by permission of the author.
Latine Poets

Lunch Walk

Lunch Walk

by Bessy Reyna

He came bouncing down the street,
heavy body, long hair, jacket and tie.
There was an oddness about him.
Then, as he approached
I heard the sound of maracas
coming from his pockets.
Was it candy?
I pictured hundreds of multi-colored sweets
crashing against each other,
he, oblivious to the crackling rhythm.
Along Capitol Avenue
our paths crossed,
lunch break nearly over.
How can I explain
being late for work
because I was following a man
who sounded like maracas?

(1997)

Used by permission of the author.