The truth is in the prologue.  Death to the romantic fool,
to the expert in solitary confinement,
I’m the same as the teacher from Colombia,
the rotarian from Philadelphia, the merchant
from Paysandu who save his silver
to come here.  We all arrive by different streets,
by unequal languages, at Silence.

The border is a line that birds cannot see.
The border is a beautiful piece of paper folded carelessly in half.
The border is where flint first met steel, starting a century of fires.
The border is a belt that is too tight, holding things up but making it hard to breathe.
The border is a rusted hinge that does not bend.
The border is the blood clot in the river’s vein.
The border says stop to the wind, but the wind speaks another language, and keeps going.
The border is a brand, the “Double-X” of barbed wire scarred into the skin of so many.
The border has always been a welcome stopping place but is now a stop sign, always red.
The border is a jump rope still there even after the game is finished.
The border is a real crack in an imaginary dam.
The border used to be an actual place, but now, it is the act of a thousand imaginations.
The border, the word border, sounds like order, but in this place they do not rhyme.
The border is a handshake that becomes a squeezing contest.

The border smells like cars at noon and wood smoke in the evening.
The border is the place between the two pages in a book where the spine is bent too far.
The border is two men in love with the same woman.
The border is an equation in search of an equals sign.
The border is the location of the factory where lightning and thunder are made.
The border is “NoNo” The Clown, who can’t make anyone laugh.
The border is a locked door that has been promoted.
The border is a moat but without a castle on either side.
The border has become Checkpoint Chale.
The border is a place of plans constantly broken and repaired and broken.
The border is mighty, but even the parting of the seas created a path, not a barrier.
The border is a big, neat, clean, clear black line on a map that does not exist.
The border is the line in new bifocals: below, small things get bigger; above, nothing changes.
The border is a skunk with a white line down its back.

What I’ve written for you, I have always written
in English, my language of silent vowel endings
never translated into your language of silent h’s.
               Lo que he escrito para ti, siempre lo he escrito
               en inglés, en mi lengua llena de vocales mudas
               nunca traducidas a tu idioma de haches mudas.
I’ve transcribed all your old letters into poems
that reconcile your exile from Cuba, but always
in English. I’ve given you back the guajiro roads
you left behind, stretched them into sentences
punctuated with palms, but only in English.
               He transcrito todas tus cartas viejas en poemas
               que reconcilian tu exilio de Cuba, pero siempre
               en inglés. Te he devuelto los caminos guajiros
               que dejastes atrás, transformados en oraciones
               puntuadas por palmas, pero solamente en inglés.
I have recreated the pueblecito you had to forget,
forced your green mountains up again, grown
valleys of sugarcane, stars for you in English.
               He reconstruido el pueblecito que tuvistes que olvidar,
               he levantado de nuevo tus montañas verdes, cultivado
               la caña, las estrellas de tus valles, para ti, en inglés.
In English I have told you how I love you cutting
gladiolas, crushing ajo, setting cups of dulce de leche
on the counter to cool, or hanging up the laundry
at night under our suburban moon. In English,
               En inglés te he dicho cómo te amo cuando cortas
               gladiolas, machacas ajo, enfrías tacitas de dulce de leche
               encima del mostrador, o cuando tiendes la ropa
               de noche bajo nuestra luna en suburbia. En inglés
I have imagined you surviving by transforming
yards of taffeta into dresses you never wear,
keeping Papá’s photo hinged in your mirror,
and leaving the porch light on, all night long.
               He imaginado como sobrevives transformando
               yardas de tafetán en vestidos que nunca estrenas,
               la foto de papá que guardas en el espejo de tu cómoda,
               la luz del portal que dejas encendida, toda la noche.
               Te he captado en inglés en la mesa de la cocina
               esperando que cuele el café, que hierva la leche
               y que tu vida acostumbre a tu vida. En inglés
               has aprendido a adorer tus pérdidas igual que yo.
I have captured you in English at the kitchen table
waiting for the café to brew, the milk to froth,
and your life to adjust to your life. In English
you’ve learned to adore your losses the way I do.

To love a country as if you’ve lost one: 1968,
my mother leaves Cuba for America, a scene
I imagine as if standing in her place—one foot
inside a plane destined for a country she knew
only as a name, a color on a map, or glossy photos
from drugstore magazines, her other foot anchored
to the platform of her patria, her hand clutched
around one suitcase, taking only what she needs
most: hand-colored photographs of her family,
her wedding veil, the doorknob of her house,
a jar of dirt from her backyard, goodbye letters
she won’t open for years. The sorrowful drone
of engines, one last, deep breath of familiar air
she’ll take with her, one last glimpse at all
she’d ever known: the palm trees wave goodbye
as she steps onto the plane, the mountains shrink
from her eyes as she lifts off into another life.

To love a country as if you’ve lost one: I hear her
—once upon a time—reading picture books
over my shoulder at bedtime, both of us learning
English, sounding out words as strange as the talking
animals and fair-haired princesses in their pages.
I taste her first attempts at macaroni-n-cheese
(but with chorizo and peppers), and her shame
over Thanksgiving turkeys always dry, but countered
by her perfect pork pernil and garlic yuca. I smell
the rain of those mornings huddled as one under
one umbrella waiting for the bus to her ten-hour days
at the cash register. At night, the zzz-zzz of her sewing
her own blouses, quinceañera dresses for her nieces
still in Cuba, guessing at their sizes, and the gowns
she’d sell to neighbors to save for a rusty white sedan—
no hubcaps, no air-conditioning, sweating all the way
through our first vacation to Florida theme parks.

To love a country as if you’ve lost one: as if
it were you on a plane departing from America
forever, clouds closing like curtains on your country,
the last scene in which you’re a madman scribbling
the names of your favorite flowers, trees, and birds
you’d never see again, your address and phone number
you’d never use again, the color of your father’s eyes,
your mother’s hair, terrified you could forget these.
To love a country as if I was my mother last spring
hobbling, insisting I help her climb all the way up
to the U.S. Capitol, as if she were here before you today
instead of me, explaining her tears, cheeks pink
as the cherry blossoms coloring the air that day when
she stopped, turned to me, and said: You know, mijo,
it isn’t where you’re born that matters, it’s where
you choose to die—that’s your country.

will become a pessimist                            eventually
trying to find what’s lost                           will ransack the house
the overstayed visa                                     the recipe book
the birth certificate                                     the first passport
nowhere                                                        to be found
the immigrant                                             will travel
drive with the windows down                  stop at the rest stops
always in search                                          trying to find more
of what made you leave                             because nothing can satisfy
the first time around                                  there is something that pushed you out
this is the horrible secret                           this is the terrible secret
the immigrant always an immigrant       there is no returning

^{translated from the Spanish by Francisco Javier Vingut}

                                 I.

   Hard my path on earth is closed;
Light is dead within my heart.
Star of Hope! thou art gone down;
   Clay and spirit now must part!

                                II. 

   Land of flowers! no more thy breezes
Sweetly shall my forehead kiss.
Sky of Love! Thy beams of light
   Shed no more celestial bliss!

                                III.

   Foreign shores, o’er seas afar,
I sought alone with many a tear
Home is lost! no more of love,
   No more of friends, no mother dear!

                                IV.

   Harp of mine! thy woeful strains,
Sadly echoing, soon shall die;
Words no more with notes shall twine,——
   Winds mid graves my lullaby.

                                V.

   Dark and lone my grave will be
From Cuba far, unmarked, unknown:
Birds will chant my requiem wild,
   And dew-drops fall for tears alone.

                                VI.

   Fate, O Fate! I fain would read
The record in thy book for me;——
Death, draw near! I list thy call;
   Ope thy gates, Eternity!

El Último Canto Del Desterrado

                                I.

   Cerrarse ya mi senda en esta vida
Y el alma está sumida en hondo suelo,
Porque en la noche del dolor sombrío
La estrella de esperanza huyó á otro cielo.

                                II.

   Tierra de flores! Ya no mas tus brisas
Plácidas besarán mi frente oscura.
Cielo de amor! No mas tus esplendores
Lloverán sobre mí paz y ventura.

                                III.

   Solitario, infeliz, playas lejanas
Y extranjeras regué con triste llanto:
Perdí mi dulce hogar, patria y amigos
Y aun perdí de mi madre el amor santo!

                                IV.

Pronto, harpa mia, morirán tus notas
En ecos tristes de confuso acento:
La voz del canto espirará en mis labios,
Arrebatada al punto por el viento.

                                V.

Triste y sola será mi pobre tumba
Léjos de Cuba, en un rincón sombrío:
Silvestres aves cantarán mi réquiem
Y lágrimas por mí dará el rocío.

                                VI.

Mi sentencia, oh, destino, he visto escrita
De tu libro en las pájinas ya abiertas:
Muerte, ven! Yo respondo á tu llamada.
Sublime Eternidad, abre tus puertas.

I know what it’s like to be an outsider.

I know how English sounds
when every word is only music.

I know how it feels not
to be an American, an English, a French.
Call them 
            Kharejee—Amrikayee, Ingleesee, Faransavi,  
see them 
            see me as alien, immigrant, Iranee.

But I’ve been here too long.
I am now an American
        with an American husband
        and American children …

But mark this—I do not belong anywhere.
I have an accent in every language I speak.

Dear President,

I’m a Hispanic immigrant
You know me
You’ve heard me.

But you don’t

You know my story
You know where I’m from
You know what I look for
You know what I want.

But you don’t

Like thousands of people
Like thousands of stories
I’m a Hispanic immigrant
But you don’t know me.

I left pinolillo y cacao helado
Fritangas los viernes en la noche
Nacatamal los fines de semana
A mi abuela en la casa

Al perrito que quedó solo y llorando
A mi Nicaragua

Mi Nicaragua y su rica cultura
Sus hermosas playas y volcanes ardientes
Su gente amorosa y hermosa

I left my Nicaragua hoping
That my future would look brighter here

I left hoping

Y todo por el
“American Dream”

El American Dream que se va desvaneciendo
The longer I stay
Because the longer I stay
I realize
I am not heard
I am not seen
And I am not wanted here

“Permanent residency or citizenship”
Is the first requisite for any scholarship

Because I have to be one of them
I have to be an American
I have to speak English
In order to have real opportunities

Because while I’m still Hispanic
While I’m still an immigrant
There’s no American Dream

¿Y el sueño americano?

With no scholarships
How do I pay ten thousand dollars per year?
How can my immigrant parents with immigrants’ jobs pay ten thousand dollars per year for each of their children? Or even one?

Where’s the American Dream for them?

There isn’t one
Cause they can’t speak English
And they have to be American

The American Dream
That promised we could study, work, live
Fades away

And if there are so many stories like mine?
If there are so many people like me
If they decide to take away my identity and label me as just another immigrant
If presidents, Americans, put all of us into one group
If they assume that they know each one of our stories and each one of our needs
If they think their system is fair
If they think that they’re helping us
If they think they know what’s best for us
If they know immigrants so well
Then how are we still not seen?
How are we still so overlooked?
How are we still so overworked?

Working for a government that does not want us in their country
That is the American Dream.

^{translated from the Spanish by Wendy Call and Shook}

^{Oh god if you exist
I’ve never doubted your existence
                          —Nancy Morejón}

No one knows their names
or their pleas that would open every border
in heaven and hell
To the passerby they’re just Black men
newly arrived in Barcelona
no job
no Spanish on their tongues
Maroons who walk the street
hawking trinkets
their hunger and angst put on display
before the gaze of nosy tourists
They have a God
I have a God
and I rue their bad luck
having to run every time the Mossos
    d’Esquadra
chase them to jail
lumping them in with thieves and
    murderers
Sometimes I go down La Gran Avenida
or down the Barceloneta or down Las
    Ramblas
and I see all those Black men
spreading their white blankets on the ground 
as if they’ll soon return to sea
flying the sail of the promised land
the land that became a mirage
So all they have left is the drifting
dinghy of their hearts
the castaway’s jagged rocks
where each is a distressed bird
But they have a God
that they hold close
with the faith of a child
and the hope of a suicide
That’s why even in the rain
they all sing their bad luck
and none of them care about this city
that can’t pronounce their names
Because they have a God that smells of
   acacia
that tastes of ether and loneliness
And they each have a white blanket
that easily opens and closes
hawking trinkets
to sustain the hungry
a sheet that can be folded and tied up
so they can run far
far away from the Mossos d’Esquadra
from xenophobia
from the blindness of God

Todos somos cimarrones

^{Oh dios si existes
No he dudado de tu existencia
                          —Nancy Morejón}

Nadie conoce sus nombres
ni sus ruegos que abrirían todas las
   aduanas
del cielo y del infierno
Para los viandantes sólo son negros
recién llegados a Barcelona
sin empleo
sin español en la lengua
cimarrones que van por la calle
con su venta improvisada de baratijas
gente que extiende su hambre y su
   asombro
ante la mirada de turistas y fisgones
Ellos tienen un Dios
yo tengo un Dios
y me lamento por su mala suerte
de correr cada vez que los mossos
   d’esquadra
vienen tras de ellos a encarcelarlos
a juntarlos con ladrones y homicidas
A veces voy por la Gran Avenida
o por la Barceloneta o por las Ramblas
y veo a todos aquellos hombres negros
que extienden su manta blanca sobre el piso
como si de pronto volvieran al mar
y ondearan las velas de la tierra prometida
la tierra que un día se les volvió espejismo
Entonces sólo les queda la barca
de sus corazones a la deriva
la piedra del naufragio
donde cada uno es un pájaro que gime
Pero ellos tienen un Dios
que guardan bajo su sombra
con la fe de un niño
y la esperanza de un suicida
Por eso aún bajo la lluvia
todos cantan su mala suerte
y a ninguno le importa esta ciudad
que no sabe pronunciar sus nombres
Porque ellos tienen un Dios que huele a
    acacias
que sabe a éter y soledad
Y también tienen una manta blanca
que se abre y cierra fácilmente
una venta improvisada de baratijas
para sostener el hambre
una manta que se dobla y amarra
para poder correr lejos
muy lejos de los mossos d’esquadra
de la xenofobia
y de la ceguera de Dios

Mumure’ Nhtä’ Yäjktampä

^{Dä’ ngomi uka yijtubäre
dejurä’ mij’ jamdzäjkpatzi
                          —Nancy Morejón}

Ni’is ji’ myusaya’e nyiäyiram
teserike kyonuksku’tyam aku’ajkyajpabä’jinh te’ anhtunh’tam
tzajpis’nyi’e teserike yatzipä’räjk’kisnyi’e
Wijtyi’ajpapä’koroya yäjktampä’ pänh’tamte’
jomemi’tyajupäma Barcelona’kupkuy’omo
jana’ yosyi’kuyjinh’tampä
ji’ myusyi’a’e’päis tzyi’apya’ä kastiya’ore
yäjktampä pänhtam’ makyapapä tunh’omo
ma’a’ wyjtyi’ajpapä
pänh’tam yisanh’sajyaj’papä’is yose’ teserike nyi’atzku’tyam
eyapäis wynanh’omoram
Te’is nyi.’ ijtyaju nhkyomi
äjtzi ijtkeruri äj’ nhkomi
tese’ yajk’ maya’yajpatzi tyi’oyaistam
myajk’kyaräjpa’ankä te mossos d’esquadras’tam
jujtzyi’e myta’ yanhku’kamä’yaräi
yajk’ tumya’räi numyajpapä’jinh teserike yajka’oye’jinh’tam
Wenenh’omo makatzi mujapä tunh’omo
makatzi Barceloneta makatzi Ramblas
tese’ a’myajpatzi mumu’ te’ yäjtampä pänhtam
tyi’okyajpapäis popo’pä tyi’uku’ najs’käjsi
makajse wyruya’e mäja’ meya’omo
makajse nu’kya’e syi’utya’räjpamä
te’ kupkuy’ jina’ yispäjkya’epä, nhkysa’yaräjpamä’
Jiksekanhte’ tzäpyapä tekoroya’ram
topyapä’tzokoy
te’ tyi’umpä konuks’kuy
juwä’ mujspa’ jonh’tzyijse’ toyapäjk’kya’ä
Te’is nyiä’ ijtyaju tumä nhkyomi tanä’ompapä
kyäwä’nyi’ajpapä kyämunh’nhkämä
une’is wyanh’janhmoky’usyi’e
yajka’oye’is wyanh’janhmoky’usyi’e
Tekoroya tuj’omo
mumu’ kasäjpa watyajpa
jyampä’yajpa yä’ mäja’kupkuy
jurä ni’is ji’ nhjyajm’jayaräi nyi’oyiram
Te’istam nyiä’ ijtyi’aju nhkyomiram
sunyi’ ompapä
nyiä’ ijtyajkeruri’ tumä popo’ruku
aku’ajkpapä sunyi anhkam’papä
nyiä’ ijtyaju tumä ma’a
wäkä jana’ yos’kaya’ä
nyiä’ ijtyaju tumä popo’ruku nhtä’ pakspapä nhtä’ sinh’papä
wäkä mujsä pyoya’ä ya’yi
jene yayi ji’ nhkyäpatyi’a’emä te’ mossos d’esquadras’tam
ji’ nhkyäpatyi’a’emä te’ nhkysa’yajpapäis yäjktampä pänhtam
ji’ nhkyäpatyi’a’emä nhtä’ nhkomi’is tyi’o’tyi’ajkuyis

We don’t even remember
what we look like anymore.

Down here, everything is wrapped
in cloth and tied with yarn.

            The light
            inching through the swell—

            our backs glossy
            as a tooth dipped in honey.

Sometimes I want to climb down a tree in secret.
I want to stand in front of a crowd
and whisper a speech in secret.

                         If they can kiss you,
                         they can kill you.

You’re a star, honey,
everyone wants your picture.

             We’ve done this before.

We’ve played every couple in every movie
rubbing makeup on our faces that smears underwater.

                        You keep stuffing my plastic face
             in your plastic mouth
             thinking this will all make it better.

It might.

                                                             What if we rose
                                                above the water
                                                where the moon wraps
                                                             its legs around a man
                                                             too old to care?

I’m only saying what you want to hear.
You’ve heard every variation before.
             Nothing happens twice.

             Nothing
             happens
             twice.

                            There isn’t anything interesting up there.
                            Only young lovers brimming over
                            with extinct longing.

Everything has a shadow and a yawn.
             Twiceness is not a thing of this world.

Be still, our children will come.

                            If you happen to come across someone,
                            and if they ask, say
                            he’s just playing dead.

                                          And then you’ll believe it yourself
                                          and will light a candle for me.

                            Nothing will convince you that prayer is a removal of self—
                                                    a distancing.

            Let’s continue this drowning
to remember what we look like.

                                          Let’s keep waking underwater
                                          until one of us gets it right.

Go ahead, sharpen yourself against these rocks.

                            Dress me in all your wet clothes.