BLESSED BE
Blessed be the Spanish overlooked on a page—hanging
on to tips of tongues, so they are not swallowed
and lost.
Blessed the bending of backs amid yesterday’s
and tomorrow’s dawn: a thousand diagonal arms
reaching for alfalfa or kale in unison, in silence.
Blessed be the midnight blue paisley handkerchief
protecting a woman’s grandfather from sunrays
piercing like endless needles searching
for skin among Salinas and Watsonville fields.
Blessed be the midnight blue travel on the Greyhound:
San Diego, Santa Cruz, San Jose, Los Angeles.
When the angels arrived at the Greyhound stations
of various destinations, they quickly began to look
for a woman entangled in her grandfather’s language
and her country’s, one sounding like barks
muffling the other trailing farther in the distance.
Having lost their sense of direction, the angels thought:
Blessed be these urban cities and not-quite-yet cities.
Then, the angels returned to their terminals, wings tucked
into their corduroyed jackets as they made their way
down narrow aisles of midnight blue seating.
Once, her grandfather said: Guided by the song
of your voice, angels will protect you. Once, he said:
Reza todos los días y canta alabanzas aunque
no tengas una vela, para que no te olvides.
And she lights a candle in memory of his song.
And she prays soft and steady every night for those
trailing in the distance.
And she knows she will never be a greyhound
under the midnight blue, yet runs, pacing herself,
so she does not tire from guiding her own children
towards the songs of their grandparents’ understanding.
on to tips of tongues, so they are not swallowed
and lost.
Blessed the bending of backs amid yesterday’s
and tomorrow’s dawn: a thousand diagonal arms
reaching for alfalfa or kale in unison, in silence.
Blessed be the midnight blue paisley handkerchief
protecting a woman’s grandfather from sunrays
piercing like endless needles searching
for skin among Salinas and Watsonville fields.
Blessed be the midnight blue travel on the Greyhound:
San Diego, Santa Cruz, San Jose, Los Angeles.
When the angels arrived at the Greyhound stations
of various destinations, they quickly began to look
for a woman entangled in her grandfather’s language
and her country’s, one sounding like barks
muffling the other trailing farther in the distance.
Having lost their sense of direction, the angels thought:
Blessed be these urban cities and not-quite-yet cities.
Then, the angels returned to their terminals, wings tucked
into their corduroyed jackets as they made their way
down narrow aisles of midnight blue seating.
Once, her grandfather said: Guided by the song
of your voice, angels will protect you. Once, he said:
Reza todos los días y canta alabanzas aunque
no tengas una vela, para que no te olvides.
And she lights a candle in memory of his song.
And she prays soft and steady every night for those
trailing in the distance.
And she knows she will never be a greyhound
under the midnight blue, yet runs, pacing herself,
so she does not tire from guiding her own children
towards the songs of their grandparents’ understanding.
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YACCAIRA SALVATIERRA was born and raised in California. Her poems have appeared in the The Acentos Review, Huizache, Diálogo, MiPOesías, Puerto del Sol, and Rattle among others. She is a VONA (Voices of Our Nation) alumna, has received the Dorrit Sibley Award for achievement in poetry and is the 2015 winner of the Puerto del Sol Poetry Prize. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net for 2015. She lives in San José, California with her two sons.
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