EL JALE DE AMOR
That Sunday I learned how to make change
for a 50 and translate the word
saw into Spanish--serrucho.
It was the first time I joined my grandfather
at the pulga as his translator and cashier.
He sat at the open ledge of his red ford truck,
wiping his sweaty brow,
making deals.
It was hard work, but it was worth it
at the end of the day when I walked with him,
side by side, eating my icy missile pop
as he cracked open roasted peanuts, shedding a trail of shells
along the asphalt mounds at the Capitol Flea Market.
for a 50 and translate the word
saw into Spanish--serrucho.
It was the first time I joined my grandfather
at the pulga as his translator and cashier.
He sat at the open ledge of his red ford truck,
wiping his sweaty brow,
making deals.
It was hard work, but it was worth it
at the end of the day when I walked with him,
side by side, eating my icy missile pop
as he cracked open roasted peanuts, shedding a trail of shells
along the asphalt mounds at the Capitol Flea Market.
I USED TO DREAM MILITANT
after Nikki Giovanni
Thunder rolled in on a horse when he crept up and scooped her, her machete in hand for the harvest—all 14 years of her thrown like a sack of rice over the back of a brown stallion and just like that, she became wife. Five children and one still born later she would rule the ripe fields of his yard, harvest yet again, not six days after her mastectomy.
This was the power of her he could not subdue, no matter the horse or threat, no matter the weight of religion in their bed. All of it could crumble if she willed it.
I’ve dreamed her out there, my tia, 5 feet tall in her milpa, digging agave graves, scars not yet settled across her right breast, bare feet like talons gripping dirt as she swings blade, cuts corn and clears earth before the final rain.
On my wedding night, still in my dress, after he named me a dumb bitch, I pictured her, slicing, sweating, ripping roots and conjuring the rich dust of crop.
What else is there but to cut and sever?
I used to dream militant--drumbeats, knives, and crossbows. A vest of bullets X-ing my chest, skirt dusting bloody revolution. I used to dream of slitting his throat, the only way to escape, the only way to create a world where no man could own me, tell me who I am, command me to breathe or not breathe.
What massacre could I manifest to make men like this as small as their hearts? I used to dream of bloodletting, smothering, burning it all down.
But one day I awoke and I saw that my leaving had already sparked an uprising, created a force-field to envelop baby nieces across time--fearless girls who run into ocean, walk precarious ledges, bare-footed, unapologetic, bold girls, voices like lightning, crackling fire, time travelers, unbound—brown baby priestesses who commune with the stars and the planets. When I killed my old self, became primordial again, there they were- synapses of the cosmos, all moonlight, my morning road, resurrection, the beginning and the end.
It is as if they have known these stories: how the women who came before have birthed themselves again and again.
I watch them leap, laugh, fall and scrape skin until blood. They rise—cry and welcome the night with a howl. They hold the vortices of the universe together as if womb. They are the rumbling beat of revolt and movement—their song the only rhythm, the only militant dream that still matters.
Thunder rolled in on a horse when he crept up and scooped her, her machete in hand for the harvest—all 14 years of her thrown like a sack of rice over the back of a brown stallion and just like that, she became wife. Five children and one still born later she would rule the ripe fields of his yard, harvest yet again, not six days after her mastectomy.
This was the power of her he could not subdue, no matter the horse or threat, no matter the weight of religion in their bed. All of it could crumble if she willed it.
I’ve dreamed her out there, my tia, 5 feet tall in her milpa, digging agave graves, scars not yet settled across her right breast, bare feet like talons gripping dirt as she swings blade, cuts corn and clears earth before the final rain.
On my wedding night, still in my dress, after he named me a dumb bitch, I pictured her, slicing, sweating, ripping roots and conjuring the rich dust of crop.
What else is there but to cut and sever?
I used to dream militant--drumbeats, knives, and crossbows. A vest of bullets X-ing my chest, skirt dusting bloody revolution. I used to dream of slitting his throat, the only way to escape, the only way to create a world where no man could own me, tell me who I am, command me to breathe or not breathe.
What massacre could I manifest to make men like this as small as their hearts? I used to dream of bloodletting, smothering, burning it all down.
But one day I awoke and I saw that my leaving had already sparked an uprising, created a force-field to envelop baby nieces across time--fearless girls who run into ocean, walk precarious ledges, bare-footed, unapologetic, bold girls, voices like lightning, crackling fire, time travelers, unbound—brown baby priestesses who commune with the stars and the planets. When I killed my old self, became primordial again, there they were- synapses of the cosmos, all moonlight, my morning road, resurrection, the beginning and the end.
It is as if they have known these stories: how the women who came before have birthed themselves again and again.
I watch them leap, laugh, fall and scrape skin until blood. They rise—cry and welcome the night with a howl. They hold the vortices of the universe together as if womb. They are the rumbling beat of revolt and movement—their song the only rhythm, the only militant dream that still matters.
SUZANA DE JESUS HUERTA is a composition writing instructor and poet. She dedicates most of her energy to the California community college system and its inspiring student body. A Bay Area native, Suzy was born in San Jose, California, and currently lives in San Francisco. She is VONA alum. Her work has appeared on La Bloga, The Packinghouse Review, Poets Responding to SB1070, Bordersenses and other journals.
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