remembering again again again
February 28, 2022.
_______
the recruiter asks me
the following
“Why are you considering this part-time job instead of a full-time career?”
her words cut
mile sized ruins of sorrow into my enormous heart
a statement masqueraded as a question
of
my
potential
productivity
worth
am I projecting? absolutely not
her frown when she asks
tells me all I need to know
as if a part-time job is less of a career
i will tell a friend
and I am not sure why
I cannot admit to him
or myself
how sad her question makes me?
there is no professional response to this inquiry
but I desire time to pursue creative work, to write
she will nod and remark
how I should pursue a career
instead.
I will no longer want to work there
dare I tell her about the craters of depression or
how there is nothing to point to,
to say,
this is it, this is what aches
ouch
yes, right here, this is where it hurts sometimes
how I loved fireworks and now I cannot handle the sound or
how my body just doesn’t work somedays
and I have no choice but to listen
dare I tell her
I was not like this before
dare I tell her
that everyone needs to be handled softly
dare I
tell her
that I am still trying to make
sense
of
the piece of myself that was stolen
between the United States and Mexico
insidious
dare I tell her
I no longer believe in borders
insidious
a simple Google search of
my
first name, last name
would inform her
that the answer to her question is none of her fucking business
dare i
mention the word disability
reasonable accommodation
dare i
grieve
adrift fragments
of time, stability, confidence,
possibility
to have the idea of career
shaken and altered
to be forced to
reimagine
everything that you carefully crafted
perfected
to relearn
your name
your smile
dare i
tell her that I am one of the lucky ones
there is no such thing as self-care in any toxic environment
that it is always better
to
get
out
{it is always possible}
a timeline
of a year to ask for help
two and a half to hear my voice
I sound different
i think?
I can’t
remember
three to trust
that I
will never betray myself again
whether I am at the table
or outside the building
by ever believing in America
insidious
in my lovely little hands
almost
four years to hold healing
to forgive myself
for not knowing what I know now
four to feel safe in my body
to walk outside
four years
to walk home alone
in the dark
in my lovely little hands
to
think
if I ignored denied discounted
the grief would just
poof . disappear
yet you cannot extinguish grief
rest
hold hands
let it visit you
often
on cloudy Monday mornings
on sunny Tuesday afternoons
in the shower, the mirror, at the park
the local coffee shop
when you least expect it
rest
until
you taste your name in your mouth
introduce yourself
again again again
one more gin
there is apple juice in the refrigerator
house shoes by the door
a hook to place your keys
frames to hold your love
D’Angelo on your stereo
open the
windows.
one more
again.
in my lovely little hands
I
discover
vulnerability
softness
gentleness
there is rosemary in my backyard
pigeons on my doorstep
did I tell you
that I watched the sunset the other night
did I tell you
that I felt the grass on my feet
did I tell you
that I fell in love with the full moon
that I saw
the stars
they were
absolutely
beautiful
I wish you
could have sat
next
to
me
I am rebuilding
Tianna
with ink I write myself love letters
on wide ruled notebook paper
instead of a dot over the i
I draw a heart instead
I am rebuilding
my name
I am rebuilding
my narrative
I am
remembering
Mexico
no one asks
not because no one wishes to know
but because
there is no space for grief
no space for me to tell you
of the sunsets in Ciudad Juarez that reminded me of cotton candy
the pozole on my tongue on rainy Friday evenings
the parking lot where I met a puppy
that I call mine
where she rescued me
again
and again and again
La Ciudad de México
blue walls in the neighborhood of Coyoacán
Paulo, the neighborhood florist
his embrace on Sunday mornings
hands wrapped in eucalyptus
that I still put in my shower
there are pieces of myself that I sprinkled all around the city
I would tell you
of the morning at the coffee shop
a new friend leaned over and asked my name
I wrote my WhatsApp in his book with a wooden pencil
he is still my friend
do you know what it is like?
to meet an angel with a book in his palms?
200 pesos for two cappuccinos
mezcal on Friday evenings
an umbrella for the rain
I still think he is
an angel.
remembering
I would tell you
of the night
I woke up to tenderness at 4:56AM
neighbors falling in love
a Spanish love song
Amor Eterno by Rocío Dúrcal
serenading the neighborhood for hours
it took weeks to find the song
until my neighbor played the song on repeat
two months later
Shazam finally working
this one of my sweetest memories
tu eres el amor del cual yo tengo
I would tell you
of the ice cream shop
rainbow sprinkles dancing
chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
jogging down my elbow after a hard day at work
I would tell you
about
the mariachi band playing across the street
around the corner
I always thought of these nights
as a surprise living room concert
on my couch I closed my eyes
and fall asleep with the neighborhood
remembering
Frida’s garden is beautiful
I would tell you of the plastic chair
near the coffee shop in the back of the museum
where I wrote some of my best poetry
the hummingbirds
and wondered how she ended up with diego
remembering
the car wash that became a taco spot at 12AM
my neighbor’s four-year-old daughter
the artist
drawing hearts and smiley faces into the dust covering my car
I purposely left my car unwashed
everyone needs a canvas
I never had the chance to tell her thank you
hoping
whoever owns the car now gazes through the sunroof
daydreaming
at the stoplight, of course
fiery seats on a cold morning
the man juggling tennis balls at the stoplight
remembering
the grandmother’s hands
how her voice shook
violently
when she said her daughter’s name
19 years without a hug
and now she’s on her way
to America
the abuelitos on a Thursday morning
the woman who asked if I was Cuban
because I looked like her daughter
the smile of a child requesting a visa for a family trip to Disney World
remembering
how the undercurrents of privilege, power, classism, and anti-Blackness
exist everywhere
despite the fact
that people are the same everywhere
doing the best with what they have
if only we had the resources that we need
how important it is to just be kind
we all need a little bit more
grace
I would tell you
of the cologne floating under the visa window
how the creases and texture of one’s hands tell countless stories of a life
the smell of paint in my art room first thing in the morning
the 12 seat Japanese restaurant in which I sought refugee
and a warm meal
I would tell you
how Spanish still lingers on my tongue on Friday nights
the nostalgia on Sunday mornings
the little girl at the park who became best friends with my dog
smiling, running down the street
together
I would tell you
I would
share
I would tell you of all that I thought I lost
and
how
my heart feels whole again
I would tell you
i am the love of which i have.
-fin.











































































