Por: Dahlma Llanos
Once Upon a time, I fell asleep
and while defenseless in my slumber,
my ancestors descended to whisper
their stories in my ears.
Old women in cracked slippers and ill-fitting teeth
rolled their hips into caned rockers
and settled into my dreams
to gift me their tales.
In the morning,
my rational, well educated mind
banished them
to a room of night time fantasies.
They shook their braided heads and waited–
patient, serene and sure.
But young and all-knowing,
I had much to do.
And so I dined at foreing tables,
reveling in the taste of the new and exotic.
I danced under Mediterranean moons,
played in virgin sand dunes,
listened to the call of doves
soaring over cathedrals of gold.
And all the while, they waited, rocking,
chewing tobacco and watching the sunset
over the Caribbean--
patient, serene and sure.
Years passed and I have finally come home,
gray-haired, tired and world-worn.
I fall asleep and there they are,
working their yellowed silk fans,
sipping black coffee
and waiting for me--
patient, serene and sure.
They habitually ambush me in my sleep.
But now, they will not stay
in their appointed spaces in the dark.
Instead, they follow me into walking.
I find them hanging from my curtains,
hiding in my jewelry box,
resting in my dresser drawers,
watching from my mirror.
They disturb my spice jars
and surprise me in my plantain pie.
They reside in my music,
the earthiness of Celia's voice,
the delicacy of Tito's xylophone.
Finally, humbled and wiser,
I arise,
darkness rubbing against my window pane,
snow and silence blanketing the world outside.
I take out my pen,
roll my hips into my rocker
and write them the stories
that have been waiting–
patient, serene and sure–
all along.
February 8, 2014
NYC
Comments