Yo fui la más callada
de todas las que hicieron
el viaje hasta tu Puerto.
—Julia de Burgos, Yo Fui la Mas Callada
Willie, when Eloy showed me the wedding rings
I broke out in tears. I was so innocent, didn’t even know
why I followed you to Bolivia.
Write me a poem that will bring me back to life, papi.
Be my distraction, or I am going to find a tall, blue eyed angel
with baker hands and lips like James Dean.
A dormir se van ahora mis lagrimas
por donde tu cruzaste mi verso.
Negro, I’ve murdered myself so many times the effort is starting to hurt.
Someone stole my poetry. They wanted to teach me to write on paper.
As if everything I do isn’t already written in blood.
I begged mama to help me die, but she refused,
had to slash my own wrist.
Todos los ojos del viento
ya me lloraron por muerta.
Do you think ghosts can ask for asylum in Cuba?
Willie, take my clothes off. Look at my scars
without crying and tell me I’m beautiful. Don’t lie,
don’t cry. I need to drink a cup of coffee with you
reading me Ginsberg, Simic, and Julia de Burgos*.
Yours forever, The Ghost.
*the verses in italics are lines from Julia de Burgos’s poems
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 4.
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