By Naomi Ayala
Bones, I can hear your skeleton weeping
it was five a.m. and hailing.
procession of clickety-clocks now
flatbed leaping into potholes.
am not a scarecrow heart.
can feed off my shadow
down Spanish Avenue, Anywhere, USA
bold and beautiful like you used to.
mobile of spite words
in that wild wind tease that lifts
the New York skyline
never knew where the news was at
today he says he saw you
my house for the station
you weren’t ever coming back.
said you were visiting
all the skinny folk in the world down south
special sancocho recipe from Loasa witchu
the infamously weak of bones.
she don’t say you’re nasty anymore
account you ain’t around to talk like you used to
it’s ungodly, she says, gripping
wild Puerto Rican heart, ungodly
sounds he used to make like every
spirit haunting your bedside cross
All Soul’s Day.
trouble with my folks is they think
there ain’t so much of you to look at now
ain’t really around when you are.
you really gone, we don’t feel you here
a clap out of time.
I told cousin Kiko
showed up outta nowhere
I took you dancing and you danced
the island had been declared free or something
there was enough rice and beans for the whole
corridor poor of this country.
care he says I lied.
care I don’t know where you are.
care you promised to write and didn’t.
can hear your skeleton weeping
and know you must be