Isabel Cruz

Miss Ruthie’s Garden 

i. 

no one could ever tell me that Puerto Ricans 

are even partly responsible for climate change 

we are Cafe Bustelo flower pots and lazy

Sundays looking for butter but finding sofrito 

in the Country Crock container 

we are cookie tins 

full of buttons and garbage bags 

full of other garbage bags 

we are copper pipes stripped— 

white man’s theft — boricua ingenuity 

like coke bottle watering cans; make do with leftovers, 

with government cheese, with paper towels, 

with hand-me-downs, with garbage. 

with emergency supplies left on the tarmac, 

ii.

miss ruthie can feed all of Riverside with one bag 

of white rice, three beans and twenty year-old astrological readings 

she can sow a paint-can garden with old avocado 

pits and grow a sixteen person family in a one-bedroom 

separated by bedsheets but filled with music 

and plants—so many plants—but there is more green 

in this one-bedroom than there are boricuas on 

the island. miss ruthie—my abuela who isn’t

really my abuela—asking about coffee grounds

and wilted leaves and when i am going to have a baby

my cousin bree just had her first and cousin edwin had his 

second and now miss ruthie is jonesing for a third, 

she rocks baby E 

and whispers—your turn, your turn, your turn   

iii. 

miss ruthie will drive you crazy—won’t leave you 

be for a solitary second—always worried about something new

she’ll call you up because the tv remote ain’t working 

or because she can’t log-in to her facebook 

and in a second miss ruthie will scream and curse at you 

call you piche malvada, malcriada, no se a quien salio 

but man, if miss ruthie don’t leave me crying 

like mama’s funeral wrenching around my heart

or the way the paranda makes my eyelids hot every june 

like i’ve lost something that i never knew the name of 

miss ruthie’s little paint-can garden reminds me 

anything can be beautiful con un poquitito de grasa 

she makes gandules appear out of thin air 

and sticks her tongue out at you con mucho mucho amor.

[Speaking in Non-English]

(first published here, the Poetry Lab, ART SICK, May 2026)

In response to Bad Bunny’s 2023 Grammy Awards Opening

survival will come from cracks / in the syntax // fissures forming from record scratch spanglish //
like they don’t like our asses anyways / like watch em caption that shit [SPEAKING IN NON-
ENGLISH] / todos quieren ser caribeños / damn fr // latino ni latino / todos / todos / todos / todos
/ todos quieren ser caribeños / so when we drop that d from the past participle / cuidao // because
i like my spanish with a stutter / off kilter like a salsa cow 

bell // hell la lengua ha sido robao // y lo ilegible is a cover / because i can’t suffer through
transcription / man, listen / sometimes its hard to feel like appreciation ain’t a fiction / its an
island devouring affliction / i want you / gringo / to walk a mile  / see how it feels / en la finca /
not no five star resort / come experience what we experience / know what we know / fuck the tax
breaks / see how far a $ goes 

the end times according to Grandma Lola 

or hombres sí/hombres no 

if jesus came back he’d be Puerto Rican and clean shaven. 5 foot y un chililin—nothing like the stained
glass santas lining the walls of the St. James rectory. there would be no depictions of our lord because, of
course, jesus is pentecostal. he would need no prayers except the $2 blessings offered by the tecatos on
Straight St. Bridge—well versed in the practice of selling indulgences for heroin money. his island
machete-drags behind him down the cobblestoned streets. he’d have no earrings, piercings, or tattoos
porque los tatuajes no pasan la prueba. because the jibaro was made in god’s image, guyabera con iglesia
cufflinks, pava halo, y todo. according to grandma lola, a beard is unacceptable grooming for the Puerto
Rican man—leave that to white jesus. 

jesus cristo, barba llena de moco, ruega por nosotros.