Poetic Mondays: Don’t Sip the Medalla
This monday we’re featuring our first non-love or heartbreak poem and it’s really special, because it was written by someone who I’ve been bothering since the very beginning, to write a poem for Poetic Mondays before she graduates. So here’s a taste of something different I hope you enjoy.
Don’t sip the Medalla,
swallow your spit like medicine
and don’t look up from your plate,
mofongo y arroz con gandules scattered to the corners.
Listen to the tourists throw compliments
like plastic coins,
and bite your tongue
when they ask you for the third time
if you studied abroad because
you’re so fluent in English!
Don’t you dare roll your eyes and reply
that you grew up in this dirt and salt air,
and that your skin can’t stand the cold
no more than they can stand walking
with their toes al aire libre.
Don’t throw your words like dynamite
when they ask if you’re adopted
because your mother,
your brother,
your cousin,
your grandmother,
are blacker or whiter than your own skin.
But do smile and lean your head on your hand,
speak sweetly,
nonchalantly,
of the streets lined up with beer cans,
both ours and theirs,
of eyes peeking into barred windows
to catch a glimpse of how we live,
how we sleep.
Recite,
word for word,
of the bloodstains washed
off of the cobblestones
and how the FOR SALE signs
are rusting and falling off the walls.
Explain why there’s always an old man
in a white sweater staring you down
from balconies and windows and street corners,
or why the walls are slowly being vandalized
with poetry,
and the cats and dogs
invading abandoned houses.
And remember to thank them for the meal,
to tip the waitress,
and please don’t bother throwing away their trash,
we’ll do it for them.
by Gabriela Taboas