No Translation
by Amanda La O Cartaya
You will never know me.
You can try,
But the me you know is a translation
Diluted for your understanding.
Did you know the Caribbean reef octopus can change colors
To blend in with rocks, corals, and the ocean floor
To hide from predators?
My unruly curls — straightened, dyed red in mourning,
The muted fall colors I wear to blend into a crowd of people like you.
Even the way I smile is practiced in a public restroom mirror
And the way the volume of my voice lowers around you,
Hoping you can't catch my accent between the syllables,
Yet my tongue always gets stuck to the roof of my mouth.
And no, I am not a Caribbean reef octopus,
But we’re kindred spirits of sorts,
Hiding who we are, anticipating attacks—
And the little girl inside me is wreaking havoc in Spanish,
Pleading to get out, clawing at my insides.
She only comes out when I am alone,
Her booming voice telling crass jokes.
Her curls are sentient,
Reaching to explore the world around her.
But when you see her, will you accept her?
It terrifies me that when meeting her,
You won’t get past the words with no translation.