by Eneida Alcalde
Borikén, 1955
En la finca at the center of the world, we meet you in your opening chapters curly haired, round-eyed Boricua stretching awake before daybreak along with her brothers and sisters, Mami waiting by the door as you line up between the bunk beds, oldest to youngest, ten boys and girls marching out into the warm breath of Caribbean morning, coquis cantando ¡coquí! ¡coquí! the iguana poised alert, perros barking in the distant darkness or nearby shadows, glowing red eyes witnessing the scene unfold in the hen house, the hens huddling over their nests, the eggs plucked one by one, set inside wicker baskets to sell later in the market with your quick reflex, you finish first eager to check off the first check and head home, tiptoeing barefoot past Papi snoring on el sofá, gripping the pistol he later replaced with la Biblia, biting your tongue you reach the children’s bedroom, sit on the straw mat by the window and inhale, savoring the sweet scent of plumerias adrift, and marvel at the gauzy garland haze layered across the hills, a blush sun rising over El Yunque’s forest realm, the supreme God stirring his café con leche, whistling into the wind, awaiting the next storm to battle from his throne, emerald tipped.
No one on this morning, not Mami or Yúcahu, not the chickens or iguana, not the coquis or their song, not the perros, not your brothers and sisters, not Chupacabra or Papi y su Biblia, no, not even yourself—would foretell how one day you’d collect your last egg, sew the last stitch on your dress for college graduation and eat your last arroz con habichuelas en la casa you’d never call casa again before boarding an airplane for the first time and arrive in América to work in what would always be your second language.
No one on this morning, not Mami or Yúcahu, not the chickens or iguana, not the coquis or their song, not the perros, not your brothers and sisters, not Chupacabra or Papi y su Biblia, no, not even yourself—would foretell how one day you’d marry, move to another continent, birth children in a foreign country, survive a dictatorship and return to América, divorce, marry again, buy your own home and your own car, vote in elections, teach the second language, buy your own eggs at the fancy supermarket, golden and farm fresh.
No one on this morning, not Mami or Yúcahu, not the chickens or iguana, not the coquis or their song, not the perros, not your brothers and sisters, not Chupacabra or Papi y su Biblia, no, not even yourself—would foretell how one day you’d receive the biopsy results, learn of the tumors spreading, and in your closing chapter yearn for the one-two simplicity of the hen house, your brothers and sisters tethered to those long-ago Caribbean mornings at the center of the world, under Yúcahu’s protection, Mami’s steady hands, coquis cantando, humming to yourself, la jibarita de Borikén.
Author Eneida Alcalde’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in literary outlets such as Pirene’s Fountain, Magma Poetry, and Huizache. A Macondista, she graduated with an MA in Creative Writing & Literature from Harvard University’s Extension School. Eneida’s poetry draws inspiration from her young daughter and her Chilean-Puerto Rican roots. More of her work can be found on her website http://www.eneidaescribe.com/.
Artist Nataliia Burmaka (Ukraine/Finland) is a poet and an artist. Her works were shown in exhibitions in Finland and were featured in magazines such as Welter, Quiblle.lit, Rednoisecollective, Arboreal, 805 lit, Phoebe etc.
Gulf Stream Magazine 