Poems from One Day My Hands Will Touch the Ceiling

From New Jersey

It’s Christmas time in Santo Domingo.We expect your arrival before Noche Buena,but we await for El Día de los Reyes,caravans of camels with magi on their backs.We’ll see the parade without you in January heatfrom a balcony above Avenida Melladays after your departure.

As you open the door with luggage in towI race to the front screaming,Papi, Papi, Papi.Melissa and Francisco in my wake.Your arms unfurl like wingsto the three of us; thisis your landing.

In the whirls of your welcomeuncle parks his car at the foot of our driveway,Cousins run to him screaming,Papi, Papi, Papi—echoes of our notes,yet they see him every morning for breakfast;watch him eat his favorite bread with honeyat home, only three miles away.

In days less than a week,we collect moments together under our skinas succulents collect water,to survive the long dry spells.When you return to New Jerseywe can only be consoledby the coming of the kings.

For a Week

Awaken with bites from mosquitoes—small flames on ankles for him to extinguish.I run to their room, find he’s no longer sleeping.Warm sheets whisper, He was just here.

Mami, on her side, points to their bathroom.I weave through the clutter spillingfrom gray suitcases—familiar and hostile.Surrounded by yellow tiles he standsin white briefs, cream on his face.

My eyes quiver at the sight of his flesh,anticipate lashings, buthe left his temper in New Jersey,hanging in the closet between navy blue shirts; therewhere impatience lies on the floornext to steel-toed boots.His smile welcomes me to the wall-length mirror.In between strokes he speaks to my reflection,asks about sleep and dreamsuntil his blade revealsthe last strip of hidden skin.

My heels scratch the unbearable itch.As he dabs menthol across my weltsI describe a hatred for oatmeal.I want eggs for breakfast, I say,imagine them fried on my plate—two suns in billowy clouds.

All right, he says.Seven days: too short for discord.We mend our lives together againknowing the stitches will come undonein a week.

Displacement

In New Jersey, I crossed urban linesevery day from West New York to Union City.The gloomy Hudson replaced my malecón.Summers—which I thought were eternal—shortenedby bitter winters that chapped my face.

I lingered between Lincoln Tunnel and George Washington Bridge,across the street from the projectswhere I heard teenage girl screamsand passed by cemeteries daily lined with tombstonesthat forced me to think of death with each dawn.

I stepped on weeds rising up to the sunthrough the cracks in uneven sidewalks.I was surrounded by concrete, gravel, brick, asphalt,parks without grass littered with big wheelswhich we dodged on roller skates bought from Goodwill.

My feet missed cool tilesas they walked on green shag carpet mildewedand torn linoleum mended with duck tapeto cover exposed wooden beamsthat creaked underneath.

Don Armando’s bodega next door warmed some winter momentswith chicharrones in between days without foodwhen icy wind whirled through cracked windows covered in plastic,refreshed us in summer with quimalitos when raindrops evaporatedas they met our dilapidated rooftop.

But soothing occasions like those were scatteredin the cojelo fiao’ ‘cause there’s no more food stampsand mañana, si Dios quiere, things will get better.