S. Salazar
Tell Me
Again.
Weave the wisps of tales
veiled in vines,
fading in age and disuse
into something
I can rewind in my mind
like a movie.
Remind me
that Abuela crushed tostones fritos
in a paper lunch sack with her fists.
That Abuelo constructed ships
and shoved them into bottles.
Tell me
how Abuela rubbed her feet
together like sticks that start a fire
to keep her feet warm.
How Abuelo was an artist,
a mechanic, before a drunkard.
How they were both builders
and gardeners
and pioneers.
Fill me in
about the reasons
behind moving to the Bronx,
not staying in Puerto Rico
or Venezuela
or Spain.
or wherever else
in whatever new
version of this story
you tell me this time.
Recite to me
the angle of Abuelo’s fingers
as he flipped
through a notepad
to animate cartoons
at your hospital bedside.
How Abuela’s hums
echoed the salsa in her hips
while she cooked dinner
for a family still together.
Tell me again
about the time a cocky
teenage boy marched
out to Abuela’s farmhouse
to serenade her.
Tell me about her
saying no.
Disclose to me
the fragments of photos
and documents
of the lives I
never lived by.
Create a verbal map.
Count off the paces
to where I can find
anything tangible
to hold on to.
Explain to me
why I hold onto
what doesn’t concern me.
Explain to me
how you grew your branches
with only half a root system
in your childhood.
Instruct me how to keep growing
my branches with the distant roots
of my childhood.
Please,
Tell. Me.
Remind me
how many tablespoons
of sofrito go
in Abuela’s pollo guisado,
and where the crucifix
in her kitchen hung.
Remind me
it wasn’t always this way.
That Abuelo pinched Abuela’s
butt and honked like a goose
because of some inside joke
from an early date together.
That Abuela only ever wanted
her husband and the life they
started building together.
That their house didn’t always shake
beneath frustration and fear.
That love lived in the hearts
of the people who hurt you,
who hurt
me too.
Tell me again,
because one day,
there will be no one
around to tell me
again.
Bio
Raised in the Pacific Northwest, S. Salazar has always felt at home in the mountains. As an English teacher, she strived to show students that success isn’t defined by background.
S. Salazar is published in Harpur Palate and has upcoming publications in Poet Lore and the Midway Journal. She has a poetry and young adult fiction manuscript in the works. Her work explores what Latinx heritage means in a family where it isn’t discussed.
Social media: @writessalazar on Instagram and Twitter.