S. Salazar

Escrutinio

De niña, I hated my eyes. Siempre crítica. 

Asymmetrical and tired, too wide-eyed or not open enough. 

Hooded lids even eyeliner couldn’t redesign into something striking.

Para reírse, I referred to myself as so full of shit my eyes

turned brown. Deep down, I believed that cliche joke held the truth, 

especially when surrounded by eyes ocean blue in a sea of white. 

I never understood mis ojos, how they’re Spanish espresso, 

fuerte y distinguida like Café Bustelo, how they’re desbordante 

like El Yunque’s forest floor after rain. The circles under my eyes

are bruises from generations of fighting back the silencing

of Borinqueños for centuries. These purple half-moons 

are family heirlooms of sleep tossed and turned like the sea, 

rooted in nervios y desplazamiento. Decades of eyes 

that I couldn’t see before. Dad’s eyes. Abuela’s eyes. 

Eyes that dim or glimmer, showing fight and might, 

ojos que albergan eternidades en un abrir y cerrar de ojos. 

Regreso

I’d rather give someone the scenery than ask them to imagine it up

when they don’t understand this world, this disconnect from it.

In ink, muses sprout into memories that sprout into messages.

As my ballpoint pen bends and curls to form stories in stanzas,

mis abuelos existen de nuevo. Estas palabras son su regreso. 

Una oportunidad de una vida que nunca supieron que podría ser suya.

When I write, I see a woman who loves hip-length hair, a bold red lip. 

When I create, I see a man who likes pressed slacks and Old Spice. 

But I also see a marriage not working. Broken love acting as

a model for their children. Este dolor proviene de las lágrimas

de la abuela cuando pierde todos sus sueños. Lágrimas que caen

sobre sus hijos. Lágrimas que invaden los corazones de sus hijos. 

Los corazones de sus hijos se transforman en dolor. 

Esas heridas se convierten en personas que hieren a otras personas.

El pasado no es el final cuando nosotros somos los nuevos comienzos.

Mis tías y tíos don’t pull pen across paper like I’ve learned to do.

They conceal the memories, so they don’t become alive again,

but they never died. They live because I’ve survived every 

bitter word and impulsive action they couldn’t bury. 

The reverberation of dysfunction clips their words. 

They chose to continue and go through the motions,

but I’m choosing to rewrite this story. 

I’m opting for a change in scenery. 

Estoy tomando lo que no se puede matar 

y lo estoy nutriendo en algo más saludable.

Más consciente. Más resistente. Más fuerte. 

Adaptada 

Mi abuelita temía todo from black cats to ocean waves. 

Mi papá temía las tragedias, and it shook him up just the same.

Mis miedos son agua covering three quarters of the planet. 

But I’ve never feared the ocean, never let the whirring currents 

keep me from dipping my toes in. Abuelita, si siguieras viva, 

I’d tell you about the mangrove tree. How it roots itself 

in an ecosystem that’s supposed to drown it.

How its roots grow into the shoreline to protect fish 

from predators hiding in the dark. How it keeps Puerto Rico’s 

resort-littered shores from falling into the sea in sheets.

How its roots can grow in agua, suelo, y aire, 

can grow thin and vertical and in loops. 

Te diría estas cosas porque the mangrove’s root systems are adaptive, 

like how you strived to be before Abuelo’s choices 

stifled your transformation. Papá y yo, and tú hija también, 

we’ve learned to adapt without you, 

but we can’t help imagining how we’d be if we rooted deeply 

in the lapping waves to adapt with you.