MAMI'S DAYS
she sews
to sew sleeves all day,
adding
arms to shirts,
&
leaves in the morning
before
the first chocolate melts, returns
with
stretched arms that hang
as if
they’ve been pulled by their joints,
&
even when it seems that the rest
of her
body will not catch up to her will,
she still
sews to sew so that
in the
end we can join papi in the u.s.
& be
whole again.
LETTER ABOUT HURRICANE FIFI
Dear --:
the winds
that sucked
in walls
& blew
Manito’s
house
against
stones
pushed
the La Prensa
camera
through
our front door
&
snapped this shot.
white
flowers stand on top
of the
casket & black petals
float
around the room as if
the
hurricane still breathes.
but the
winds can’t leave yet.
Tia Lydia
needs them
to push
her legs
forward,
so she
can walk again,
& i
need them
to carry
this newspaper
photograph
to you.
you’ll
see it. You’ll see
what i
mean when i say
that i’ve
grown so much
since you
left. You’ll see
how my
head is so close
to
reaching
the top of the
casket.
NEW LONDON VERSE
Ago, when I jogged from Eminent Domain
Road, out
of that Fort Trumbull
Home with
cracked aluminum siding, before
The city
started siding with pin stripes
And
before pens started signing contracts
To get
rid of crabgrass and broadleaf,
I’d let
our Shepherd-mix loose
Near the
train tracks, watch it
Chase
whistles, as we’d run together
On the city’s crosswalks. Piano
keys
Would
lead us to tap on Main Street, gallop
Up Coit,
and stretch each note. He’d
Take the
lead from the horns of busses,
Climb hills like scales rising for an encore,
And step
dance while winds re-tuned power lines,
Bolt over broken beer bottles, and dash past
Abandoned
buildings. I’d follow him
In a
sprint until my legs ached like
The sore
veins and decaying
Livers of
dormant homeless dwellers,
Who would
push us to go and go and go to,
Away from
urban timbers
And into
the finish line of the suburbs
Where
eight years later,
After
helping my mother sign away the deed
(a confession of being a weed),
I’d move
into my first single-family home,
Where police sirens would be silenced
Where stars would shoot wildly
into the sky,
Where I’d take an evening jog
In my basement and fold my
treadmill into a safe,
Hidden corner right next to a
window
Where I could see the neighbor’s
full-breed
Pacing back and forth in his
backyard,
Squared off by an electric fence,
And I could see the long,
Guilty
distance I had traveled.
-
Jose B. Gonzalez was born in San Salvador, El Salvador and immigrated to New London, Connecticut at the age of eight. He knew no English and now holds a Ph.D. in English. He has been a featured speaker at colleges, universities, and organizations throughout the country and has contributed critical and nonfiction essays to such journals as New England Quarterly and to National Public Radio. He has published poetry in such journals as Callaloo, The Teacher's Voice, Palabra, Acentos Review, and anthologies including Coloring Book, Nantucket: A Collection, and Latino Boom: An anthology of U.S. Latino Literature, which he also co-edited. He was the 2009 AAHHE Outstanding Latino Faculty of the Year, and has been the New England Association Teachers of English Poet of the Year. He is the founder and editor of LatinoStories.Com and teaches at the U.S. Coast Guard Academy in New London, CT.