Let me show you… this wound right here, in my side, was cut with the edge of my Green Card

Let me show you… this wound right here, in my side, was cut with the edge of my Green Card. Right here, by my heart, you’ll find a picture of a park where my cousins play and grow up without me. Now, inside my heart, much deeper, my sister’s womb’s heartbeats are too far away for me to hear. And in my pocket, my best friends will soon forget me. If you see my feet you’ll find that they are vanishing, ready to go live my life happening without me, far away, where I am not, not there, not there yet, never again, never the same. The foot that remains walks the street, a million miles away.  My nausea condems future trips back home, because in my gut, my passport will have two new stamps, one that goes , one that returns, and two stamps are too confusing for me to digest. This wound right here, on my other side, is the pain that Lima gave me when I came here. She told me to miss her and taught me to hate her. And I learned. I learned to miss faces, and arms around me and hate her pains of tensing my body while walking the streets, waiting for someone to rob or to rape me. And my hands… my hands are full of prayers to see the wrinkles of my uncles and aunts, who are aging, before it’s too late. Let me show you… how to look through my eyes, and through those that still want to find out why they are here, why they left all behind, why they still can’t relate and see themselves in a world where they belong. Lima is our home, but not anymore. And our legs cannot stand in this place, not for long. We are vanishing, half over there, half over here. Mi imagen flota en transición y la emoción ahoga lágrimas rotas. Después de tanto, it’s too pointless to cry. En la garganta, llevo silencio infinito, y en el alma, tres gotas de libertad.

The Chant of Lima’s Refugees

(sometimes-and only sometimes- I feel like a refugee, even when my alien status is not the one of a refugee)

Can’t go home

cause auntie got kidnapped

and it could happen to me,

cause uncle got shot

and it could happen to me.

Can’t go home

permanently.

Now I know what safe feels like

(relatively).

This is the chant of Lima’s refugees.

We got tired of seeing poor people in the streets,

of being mugged and robbed and remain still.

But we know in our hearts the poor did not dissappear

and what we escaped could happen to our relatives.

This is the chant of Lima’s refugees.

We thought this was normal,

the way we used to live,

watching our backs all the time when we walked the streets,

being afraid of taxi drivers that could make us dissappear.

This is the chant of Lima’s refugees.

Don’t take me wrong, Lima is “the bomb”.

The people are warm, the nightlife is fun.

My future nephew will make it a better place

and I miss all my friends who still live there,

my family, my sister, my past-life too.

I even miss catholic school.

And I want to go back almost every day

but I don’t know if I could ever feel safe again

cause Lima’s refugees have escaped

a “normalcy” that we view now as insane,

which is the reality of those we love,

of those who we miss, of those who stayed.

This is the chant of Lima’s refugees…

too scared to go back

with desire and means to leave.

04/26/08

m.c.b.z.

 

Ma se va a Lima

Ma se fue en la mañana

a montarse a un avión de regreso,

aunque sólo por unos días,

a Lima, la ciudad dorada

de tantas luces en los postes.

Aquí cuando ves a lo lejos

a las estrellitas colgadas del cemento,

la intensidad y el brillo

no son los mismos que allá.

Cuando descienda el avión,

Ma verá las luces de Lima,

distintas y recordará

que un día las dejamos atrás.

 

Volver

Volar a casa

como paloma blanca tiñéndose de gris

entre las nubes cargadas con humo de combis.

Volar a casa

por las rutas conocidas hasta hace poco,

por las veredas estrechas y rotas.

Volar a casa

como quien nunca pudo llevarse

todo de sí en el primer vuelo

porque de casa uno nunca se va

al menos, nunca del todo.

Respiran los árboles del balcón

y me asfixian la casa.

Allá afuera se definen

las redes de mi cárcel.

Las paredes infinitas,

la piel impermeable.

La vida atrapa

ante el miedo presente

de volver a sentir

y permitir

una sola

lágrima viviente

por la melancólica hora,

por una historia pre-histórica.

Los muros, tal vez la distancia,

lejos de las calles Limeñas,

que quizá sean

los únicos caminos

a donde podría escapar.