In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • A Bronx New Year’s Eve
  • Joann Quiñones (bio)

1:10 p.m.—Under portraits of a velvet Jesus   there is my grandfather’s favorite chair   which no one dares sit in.   The kids are afraid that if they sit   their fingers too would turn black   and the love of sleeping will catch them.   Sleeping a dreamless sleep, they think   dying is contagious.

3:21 p.m.—My grandmother holds pictures on   days like these. She wants everyone to see her   boy. What a son he was! Look, do you see the   resemblance in his son’s eyes, his only son   who only comes once in a while, but in between   she comforts herself in black. He’ll be back   to hear stories of his father’s purple hearts,   buried in the bottom drawer.

6:18 p.m.—Pressed up against a wooden paneled wall,   my uncle smiles the smile touched by the   Viet-Cong. In his doped up daze he can’t smell   the red of blood, can’t hear the butt of the   rifle, cracking against his mouth.   He still smiles.

9:45 p.m.—My aunt lies on the couch. It’s too hot,   too hot in here! Shoes, socks, tops disappear.   Get her in the other room before she starts   loving everybody. Everybody is beautiful.   Oh baby, baby, she laughs. She is beautiful   when she’s not sober. Bottle of Bacardi plays   the looking glass. [End Page 250]

12:01 a.m.—Stepping out into the sweat of an old   city, we sit on the stoop, look at our faces.   This is our family. A crack in the sky, hurry   up inside. Who knows the difference between   cherry bombs and bullets anymore? Bullets   stray. Come inside. Let the sounds of   Bruckner Expressway stop at our red gate. [End Page 251]

Joann Quiñones

Joann Quiñones is Associate Professor of English and Africana literatures at Earlham College.

...

pdf

Share