mountains and language: a poem

la madre
de mi madre
once told me that there was un padre
who could heal me
and I was growing
and god would bless me
            she couldn’t see that inside my mind
            my eyes were climbing mountains
            and reeling from looking at the world below
            reeling from the world above
            touching me
            with the figments of her faith
            and sincerity in her prayer

see, there is something that happens
when dios te bendiga, god blesses me,
that I can’t quite place,
maybe it’s my heart
kneeling confused
praying hope into thick air as if a miracle could bring my words and aspirations
to the clouds
when I still need a hand to get up from the ground

and resentment
was never spent bent on the floor so long
            I tried crying for god
            and composing my own psalms
and there is something that happens
when dios te bendiga
that I never let touch me again

and with a staff like a pen
I’m still shivering and shaking
from trying to rise

pulling up on a stick that bleeds ink
and leaves scars on paper for me to touch and savor
as my only child
only son, little boy of memories
            and I see
under my patted down hair there was a churning
and a deep self-reflexive stare
that for ten years
I wished to death I could run away from

and there are chapters when I
                                                break down
maybe it’s hidden guilt
of praying to what I don’t believe in

and stronger people
have to hold me and hold me, my heart finally broken
so it’s open
but there is no rush
of a rainbow of words, only,
“I’m sorry” and convulsions and something that’s too hot
                                                                        and too cold

                                               and this is my story in English

                                                            _____ _____

the mother
of my mother
once told me that there was a father
who could heal me
and when I walked through doorways
on
     this
            side of my family
lips would whisper
and thumbs and wrists
would spin just barely with the memory of church

and they did love me
in their embracive Latino way
-your growing so tall
-cuantas novias tienes
and I would blush
and they would sit me down
and tell me that I don’t come to visit often enough

-when was the last time you came to Costa Rica?
-last summer, I come every summer,
-you mean every rainy season.
-well, yes, that’s true. it’s raining right now
            warm tears
            because god blessed them so
            much

and out of the kitchen
or stepping away from the tele-novela,
back from haciendo compras
            both the shopping and soap-operas were good,
but I’m from los esatados unidos
so for once they’re going to lay a blessing where it should go;

every time dios me bendiga
en Costa Rica
it rains,
it washes away their pain
they feel good around me
because they have prayers for me,
they heal me in their minds almost
as much as I do

but they do truly love me,
and I always feel the need
to politely destroy the bible in-between us

la madre
de mi madre
once told me que había un padre
who could heal me

that I should cry
and plead with my mother
to take me behind god’s mountain
in the middle of Costa Rica
and see the father who could hide my sin from me
better than she could

well
I’m taller than my grandmother now
and she hasn’t talked to me
about miracles
since my eyes shied away
from looking up to her

I’m sure she still believes
that somewhere in Costa Rica God made a mountain
of prayer beads
I’m sure her faith is still
much taller than me
but it isn’t there
                         looming
                                      anymore.

gracias abuelita,
for taking care of my great-grandparents in their old age,
raising my mother and aunts,
sewing and cooking,
and loving me enough to pinch my cheek
and call me guapo

for kissing me
hugging me
“por dios” -trembling,
serving me steaming food
and swatting all the flies away

I look at the pictures
of la virgin and baby jesus
while I eat the pinto con juevos
you cooked me
and I realize that you have lead me by hand up a mountain
stronger
and older
than god
your gaze stays straight ahead
while my eyes go wild climbing
because no one who has loved me has ever lied to me like this before,
a creation of the
figments of your faith
and sincerity in your prayer

the second bite of
rice and beans
reassures me:
the heavy, que calor, air, wooden table, plastic chairs,
filling me pintado with pinto

you will never hear it from my lips
but it will seep through my prayers if I ever make one again
I love you
I don’t understand your faith
I don’t know how you slipped those bibles under my hands
but god isn’t my answer
I know I’d rather read your story
from your face

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