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L I B R E R A
TALLE R LI T E R AT U R A
*CONTEMPORARY USA LITERATURE
2 de julio 6 de agosto 2016 / 3pm 5pm
Coordinador: Reygar Bernal
I.
II.
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filling the creases of their wrinkled lips;
clinging to one anothers lies of lost wealth,
ashamed and empty as hollow trees.
III.
IV.
V.
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as if committing an act of treason,
faking her enthusiasm for my sake.
Mam set a frozen pumpkin pie in the oven
and prepared candied yams following instructions
I translated from the marshmallow bag.
The table was arrayed with gladiolas,
the plattered turkey loomed at the center
on plastic silver rom Woolworths.
Everyone sat in green velvet chairs
we had upholstered with clear vinyl,
except To Carlos and Toti, seated
in the folding chairs from the Salvation Army.
I uttered a bilingual blessing
and the turkey was passed around
like a game of Russian Roulette.
DRY, To Berto complained, and proceeded
to drown the lean slices with pork fat drippings
and cranberry jellyesa mierda roja, he called it.
Faces fell when Mam presented her ochre pie
pumpkin was a home remedy for ulcers, not a dessert.
Ta Mara made three rounds of Cuban coffee
then Abuelo and Pepe cleared the living room furniture,
put on a Celia Cruz LP and the entire family
began to merengue over the linoleum of our apartment,
sweating rum and coffee until they remembered
it was 1970 and 46 degrees
in Amrica.
After repositioning the furniture,
an appropriate darkness filled the room.
To Berto was the last to leave.
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looking for my resemblance in the foreign
image of an ear, an eyebrow, or a nose.
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mangos, passing gas at the kitchen sink.
Betting on America
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who apparently was a breast man at five,
reaching for Miss Alabamas bosom
on the screen, the leggy mulata sashaying
in pumps, swimsuit, seducing To Pedro
into picking her as the sure winner.
May she never miss the sun or the rain in the valley
trickling from Royal palms, or the plush red earth,
or the flutter of sugarcane fields and poincianas, or
the endless hem of turquoise sea around the island,,
may she never remember the sea or her life again
in Cuba selling glossy postcards of the revolution
and El Che to sweaty Germans, may she never forget
the broken toilet and peeling stucco of her room
in a government-partitioned mansion dissolving
like a sand castle back into the Bay of Cienfuegos,
may she never have to count the dollars wed send
for her wedding dress, or save egg rations for a cake,
may she be as American as I wanted to be once, in love
with its rosy-cheeked men in breeches and white wigs,
with the calligraphy of our Liberty and Justice for All,
our We The People, may she memorize all fifty states,
our rivers and mountains, sing God Bless America
like she means it, like shes never lived anywhere
else but here, may she admire our wars and our men
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on the moon, may she believe our infomercials, buy
designer perfumes and underwear, drink Starbucks,
drive a Humvee, and have a dream, may she never
doubt America, may this be her country more than
it is mine when she lifts her Diet Coke like a torch
into the June sky and clutches her faux Chanel purse
to her chest, may she look into New York Harbor
for the rest of her life and hold still when I say, Smile.
letting his breath twirl, then clap and sing before sandpaper
juiced the metal. The only Mexican to never sit in a Catholic pew
was born on Halloween, and ate his lunch wrapped in foil against
the fence with the other Mexicans. They fixed old Fords where my
grandfather worked for years, him and the welder Juan wagered
each year on who would return first to the Yucatan. Neither did.
When my aunts leave, my dad paces the living room and then rests,
like a jaguar who once drank rain off the leaves of Cecropia trees,
but now caged, bends his paw on a speaker to watch crowds pass.
He asks me to watch grandpa, which means, for the day; in town
for two weeks, I have tried my best to avoid this. Many times he will swear,
and many times grandpa will ask to get in and out of bed, want a sweater,
he will ask the time, he will use the toilet, frequently ask for beer,
about dinner, when the Padres play, por que no novelas, about bed.
He will ask about his house, grandma, to sit outside, he will question
while answering, he will smirk, he will invent languages while tucked in bed.
He will bump the table, tap the couch, he will lose his slipper, wedging it in
the wheel of his chair, like a small child trapped in a well, everyone will care.
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Spanish, he shakes his head, and reminds me, he is the only Mexican.
During a War
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in a simple room
with a radiant rug.
Your friends & mine.
He Said EYE-RACK
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our higher purpose. No, we did not see
your bed of parsley. On St. Patricks Day
2003, President Bush wore a blue tie. Blinking hard,
he said, We are not dealing with peaceful men.
He said, reckless aggression.
He said, the danger is clear.
Your patio was not visible in his frame.
Your comforter stuffed with wool
from a sheep you knew. He said, We are
against the lawless men who
rule your country, not you. Tell that
to the mother, the sister, the bride,
the proud boy, the peanut-seller,
the librarian careful with her shelves.
The teacher, the spinner, the sweeper,
the invisible village, the thousands of people
with laundry and bread, the ants tunneling
through the dirt.
People passing,
loaves of bread,
little plans
the size of a thought,
dropping off something you borrowed,
buying a small sack of zaater,
it was a hand with fingers
dipping the scoop into the barrel.
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in pressed blue smocks.
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for a very long time.
Chelsea, Massachusetts
Christmas, 1987
Golden trumpet,
silver trombone,
congas, maracas, tambourine,
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Bully
Roosevelt is surrounded
by all the faces
he ever shove in eugenic spite
and cursed as mongrels, skin of one race,
hair and cheekbones of another.
Air-conditioned introductions,
then breezy Spanish conversation
1 Tano ancestors: The most culturally developed indigenous tribe in the Caribbean when
Columbus arrived in Hispaniola in 1492
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fan his curiosity to know
what country I come from.
Puerto Rico and the Bronx.
Understandably he turns,
catches up with the hostess,
praising the uncommon quality
of her offerings of cheese. 1997
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european, indian, black, Spanish,
and anything else compatible:
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fast tongue moving street corner que
corta talk being invented at the insistence
of a smile!
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our left side neighbors, didnt want trouble.
Theyd come a long way to be free!
Mr. Scott, the retired plumber,
and his plump midwestern wife,
considered moving back home
where white and black got along
by staying where they belonged.
They had cultivated our street
like the garden shed given up
on account of her ailing back,
bad knees, poor eyes, arthritic hands.
She went through her litany daily.
Politely, my mother listened
Ay, Mrs, Scott, qu pena!
her Dominican good manners
still running on automatic.
The Jewish counselor next door,
had a practice in her house;
clients hurried up her walk
ashamed to be seen needing.
(I watched from my upstairs window,
gloomy with adolescence,
and guessed how they too must have
hypocritical old-world parents.)
Mrs. Bernstein said it was time
the neighborhood opened up.
As the first Jew on the block,
she remembered the snubbing she got
a few years back from Mrs. Scott.
But real estate worried her,
our houses plummeting value.
She shook her head as she might
at a clients grim disclosures.
Too bad the world works this way.
The German girl playing the piano
down the street abruptly stopped
in the middle of a note.
I completed the tune in my head
as I watched their front door open.
A dark man in a suit
with a girl about my age
walked quickly into a car.
My hand lifted but fell
before I made a welcoming gesture.
On her face I had seen a look
from the days before we had melted
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into the United States of America.
It was hardness mixed with hurt.
It was knowing she never could be
the right kind of American.
A police car followed their car.
Down the street, curtains fell back.
Mrs. Scott swept her walk
as if it had just been dirtied.
Then the German piano commenced
downward scales as if tracking
the plummeting real estate.
One by one I imagined the houses
sinking into their lawns,
the grass grown wild and tall
in the past tense of this continent
before the first foreigners owned
any of this free country. 1992
First Muse
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sassy, olive-skinned, hula hooping her hips,
a basket of bananas on her head,
her lilting accent so full of feeling
it seemed the way the heart would speak English
if it could speak. I touched the screen and sang
my own heart out with my new muse. I am
Chiquita Banana and Im here to say . . . 1999
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Catherine Liu
I do not know Ang Grish, but I can tell you that my last name
consists of three letters, and that technically all of them are vowels
I do not know Um Glish, but I do know how to eat with two sticks
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To being Chinese than I could ever be.no one publicly disagreed with him,
Which, according to the rules of English, means he is right
The fact that I disagree with the man who translates from the Spanish
is further proof that I am not Chinese because all the Chinese
living in America are hardworking and earnest
and would never disagree with someone who is right.
This proves I even know how to behave in English
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and that if this was how my father pronounced it,
then the poor man had been wrong all his life
I do know English because I left the room when the doctor told me
I had no business being there
An atlas
on the underside of my dream.
My half-shut eyelid
a black wing.
moths swarmed
from my throat.
a map of America
flapping in the dark.
Once I dreamt
of inheriting this
my mother
who still follows crows
through the field,
me on her breast
in a burial quilt. 2013
Leaving Tulsa
for Cosetta
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with their documents from the city
and a truckload of pipelines,
her shotgun was already loaded.
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stamped on Gods forsaken country,
a roof blown off a shed,
beams bent like matchsticks,
a drove of white cows
making their home
in a derailed train car. 2013
Before Waking
Empty highway.
Forest in the distance
cobwebs mapping
the clearing of the pines.
where my footprints
disappear down your throat.
Gasoline
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in smokestacks over Shiprock,
power plants behind fruit trees
I wear their diesel on my clothes.
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and can only speak about blue things
the woman in the blue shirt, the blue
October sky, blue silk on the womans
laundry line
flapping against a blue breath,
the bluishness of a body
when it is left behind, the blue
memory of a desert
littered with bottle caps,
smashed glass,
shells,
squares of sunlight
fading from water
footprints. Diesel.
Blue dress. Tar.
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From Sand Creek
In protest though,
I should have stolen.
My life. My life.
After winter,
our own lives fled.
I reassured her
what she believed.
Bought a sweater.
And fled.
6 Christopher (Kit) Carson (1809-1868), Indian agent who killed many Native Americans.
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