Susana Praver-Perez

Beauty

I was born with a birthmark

shaped like Borinquen, a brown island

floating on the sea of my belly,

a curiosity under my fingertips.

My mother always

called my birthmark

a beauty mark, turned it

from stigma to stunning.

When I was ten, a doctor

convinced my parents

this assemblage of melanin

could endanger my future.

He summarily cut 

the small map from my body,

edges stitched together,

indurated, upended, and pink.

With time, the scar

became smooth as sea glass,

soft and pliable, stretching 

wide as I grew.

By the time I turned twenty-two, 

the scar embodied the shape 

of Borinquen, suture marks

suggesting surrounding islands:

Vieques, Culebra, Mona, 

Palomino, Icacos, and more—

the entire Puerto Rican archipelago

etched again in my flesh.

A  Storm Named María

Before the rain sliced like knives, she arrived

like a thoughtless guest—too early—

before the yucca was boiled and the table set.

She shouted her name from the street,

up through the second-floor windows, 

voice like soot streaking drapes.

The virtues of her namesake, revered

in hallowed halls, disguised

her jagged nails & snake-filled hair.

She rumbled in,

slung her muddy boots

and bloat on sofas,

poured herself into bedrooms, 

bent narratives, stained

scrapbooks with mold, 

became backdrop

for family photos, 

became a measure of time—

Before and After

Antes y Después

After the rain hacked like machetes,

she flew away, tin roofs tied

like wings to her scapulae.

She huffed her salty breath, left

her name etched on walls and trees, 

like an explosion of graffiti.

Now, when a lamppost tilts

towards  the sea,

we whisper her name.

When the washer overflows

bringing back those flooded days, 

we whisper her name.

When traffic lights refuse to blink

and cars jostle at street corners, 

we whisper her name.

When the electric flickers and dies

again, and again,      and again,

we whisper her name.

Inscribed on 4,000 gravestones, her name

is a mourner’s rosary, a nightmare 

from which we can’t wake.

Yet, at daybreak, she sips café in our kitchens, 

scratches at our skin to see what we’re made of.

We don't know her by Doña or Señora-–

just her naked given name.

Reasons For Returning

(after Ocean Vuong)  

A rooster crows in the dark.

The first pink rays filter through palm fronds.

Un café, a cool cotton bata,  mi terraza.  El barrio begins to stir.

I celebrate waking while the cock thinks nothing of his cú-cu-rú-cu-cú.

I write in the peace of dawn while the world flames in war.

Words sometimes pour out of me in perfect rhyme —& it's awesome.

When you love an island,  its sounds become your voice.

 San Juan’s air carries oceans.

 We carry on—mercy & compassion are what saves us.

 I make amends for the messes I’ve made.

 This life is the only one I have.

The scent of  sofrito on calle Loíza  makes me hungry.

 My favorite telenovela is el bochinche del barrio.  

 The coquis’ song is my favorite lullaby.

A storm rains warm on my shoulders.

Winter & Summer are twins.

Bomba & Plena scaffold the island’s rhythms.

Mi amor, multiplied a million times, equals family.

Graffiti on broken buildings becomes Art when you squint just right.

Se Vende signs, scrawled in red paint, drip like wounds needing healing.

The electric grid is a nightmare, but we’ve learned how to dance in the dark.

I hold this fractured island in my heart, unbroken.

I made a promise.