I wasn’t born where the earthquakes are hitting

by Frankie A Soto

I am more than my clumsy tongue falling over itself/ fumbling palabras I could never seem to grip tight enough to ease my Abuelas ears from bleeding with sharp miscues of words/ I double dutched two languages always getting my foot caught on the rope/ my mouth wanted to be a homeland without an asterisk/ I am many asterisks after my last name/they will ask but do you speak spanish?/ I will be a shrug/ a mixture of no in sign language & silence/ tongue has always been a bystander watching conversations/ watching the rope twirl / waiting for my turn to jump in/ waiting to stop reasoning that my sangre isn’t trespasser / if my mouth is a rebel who has yet to speak the way of my ancestors/ I want my pain to not need explanation / I want my worry to be my accent / to be my mourning of land that my Wela rose from the cracks/ there are so many cracks in the earth/ it is shaking the life out of the breathing/ They haven’t caught their wind after Maria/ are they alive?/ is this what aftershock feels like/ a president with an empty wallet/ mentirosa/lies & orange wigs/ carnivorous ground with an endless appetite/ Trump with an endless twitter/ a mother uses her body as armor from the crumbled ceiling/ her daughter still doesn’t make it/ a purge will begin soon/ the land is evicting its tenants asking for rent/ asking for help/ never asking if I speak spanish/ asking to be heard/ in any language to not be forgotten in playas/ in resorts/ in San Juan on a brisk evening/ white on white slacks & unbuttoned shirts/ falling over on the way home/ drunk on a heavy handed bartenders pour/ rum in your step/ the sugar in your sangre/ a clumsy salsa en route to finding a hotel key card/ a heartbeat that is rumbling/ you don’t look at the ground/ you don’t look at the people/ no flight somewhere/ no vacation/ a home that is dying/ slowly/ a casket burying itself.