Beatriz Yanes Martinez

In Search of El Amate

I remember the first time I saw la flor de amate

I held tightly as my mom carried me on her arms 

I could still taste the bitterness of la toma de ruda, jalape y rubarbo Tia Lupa 

Had rubbed on my belly and my lips for el empacho 

I stared up to the Flor de Amate 

Letting me witness for a second her branches opening up to reveal the hidden flower

The matted, intertwined roots that always look like they are lamenting a loss 

took a break from their usual sadness to take a breath of joy 

I stared in amazement to the infinitesimal gift

The tightness in my belly from el empacho disappeared

Grief goes for a walk 

Along the quiet dirt road where it all began and where it all ended 

Sometimes she goes on a walk greeting her old friend Flor de Amate 

Who feeds her with her buttressing roots a taste of the long lost memories of ayer savoring the hints of ruda and rubarbo 

The ambulances, and the cars, and sounds of New York that never sleeps 

Makes her wonder when she’ll hear from Carreta Bruja and the women she carries on her back

She takes a call on WhatsApp and sends a bouquet of amates on the virtual funeral 

Of all the memories that have long turned to dust 

Grief goes for a walk

Wondering how a place so bitter can exist 

Wondering, is this how displacement and loss tastes like? 

Hallucinating until she reaches a moment where dusk turns to complete darkness 

Grief embraces her old friend Flor De Amate 

Who takes her back to the Cigua women who’ve led with their heads held high 

Even when gift of mourning was strapped to their shoulders 

The second time I saw the Amate was when I was nine

I was in the middle of the desert in the middle of June 

Far beyond my world, far beyond my roots

I thought I was hallucinating as I stared up 

at the canopy of the branches offering me their shadows of comfort

I felt la raices de Amate embracing me and shielding me 

I stared at her offering of water 

And drank for the first time in days 

Today is fourteen years and twenty one days since crossing.

and yesterday, I found an old journal at my mom’s place nestled between my old, rattled English-Spanish dictionary and my 4th grade copy of Because of Winn-Dixie. Four years, eleven months and three days since crossing I wrote as my date. My handwriting very calculated, g and j and y’s with their little twirls, I forgot I even wrote like that. Nowadays, my handwriting is always r u n n i n g. My sister once planted chipilin seeds in my aunt's garden, and they grew to be orchids. The point is, orchids were once chipilin and this did not start as a migration poem. Once a teacher asked to describe a vacation we’d gone to, “preferably one in another country.” I wrote about how I vacationed in Mexico, or that I took a road trip through Guate or that I went on an excursion in the desert somewhere in US-Mexico border. She thought it was true, I mean, it is? But you know, context matters. I came across a copy of american dirt at the community bookstore on 7th street - another systemic heist in the name of “compassion” and “real-life stories” for the yt palette, perfectly packaged in a 6 figure deal. how many, “go to hells” can I say? I did go on a road trip once- I had to kneel in the car so the feds wouldn’t see, it went on for hours on end until I forgot my legs were part of my body, I walked on the desert for far too long, and can still taste the putrid water from the abandoned and revolting water fountain we found after we ran out of water near the desert, and once we got to the safe house they had to take out the thorns from the soles of my feet because I had lost my shoes days before. But this makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?