Tesoro, p.1
Tesoro, page 1
Copyright © 2018 Yesika, Salgado
No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.
Salgado, Yesika
ISBN: 978-1-945649-23-3
Edited by Safia Elhillo
Proofread by Rhiannon McGavin
Cover design by Cassidy Trier
Editorial design by Ian DeLucca
Not a Cult
Los Angeles, CA
for
Saya and Henry
my two lemon trees
Contents
I.
Nostalgia
Canela
The Women
Polaroid
Terremotos
Mami’s Cooking
Excuses
In Our Family
Tamales
Las Locas
II.
1995
First Kiss
Thanksgiving
Phone Sex
San Vicente, El Salvador
No Language
The Pretty Girl
Panic
Echo Park
Pacoima
La Americana
III.
Sweetheart
Bittersweet
Tonsillectomy
Tamarindo
Bipolar
She Names You Corazón
The Belly Has Questions
Scandal
Forgetting You
How I Know I Haven’t Stopped Loving You
Sal y Limón
X
On Loving Someone That Doesn’t Love You Back
Credit
IV.
The Funeral
St. Patrick’s Day
Papi’s Second Death
Tesoro
Bakersfield
Survival Tactics
The Therapist
A Miscarriage
When The Poems Don’t Come
Knives
V.
La Novela
Soltera
I love you
A Guanaca In Los Angeles
Saya
La Tía
Ode To A Fat Girl’s Crop Top
Oakland
Hollywood
Endulzar
10:15pm
At My Funeral
Corazón,
months ago when I began conceptualizing this book I thought it would be this grand bilingual story about my family. I imagined myself interviewing my mother, tías and primas. I wanted to gather our history of survival. I wanted to do it in both of my languages. as I wrote and searched my archives for poems, the story began to slowly change. ripen. I began answering questions I have asked before but the answers were clear now. how did I learn to love? to forgive? how did I become the woman, lover and poet that I am? this book turned into a closer look at myself. all the women I have been, who I will be. my hunger for answers. the gray space between my languages. the balance of two countries. the city I was born into. the bitter and sweet of my life. Tesoro is the unearthing of what is most sacred to me. my treasure; the women who raised me, the women who keep me, the woman that I am. I hope you see yourself in them. I hope they coax the bittersweet out of you too.
yours,
Yesika
I.
I come from women
who fend for themselves
Nostalgia
there are two lemon trees in our garden. small dusty seeds that were planted before we moved in twenty nine years ago. every spring they grow heavy with fruit. sometimes I stand barefoot between them. my big toe nudging their children rotting on the floor. the neighbors come with bags to carry away the living. take as many as you want I say as I shut the door. I do not wonder what becomes of them. if they go on to be sweet or bitter or both. inside, I write a love note to a mango hanging on a tree I have not seen in years.
Canela
I am a brown woman who writes poetry about her brown life. I read it out loud and my accent curls the corners of my words. I am made of two languages coiled into the braid of my tongue. I belong to this country and to the one who birthed my mother. I write the coffee-stained edges of my world. the soft caramel of my grandmother. the hazelnut of my sisters. the cinnamon skin of the man I love. I am built of colors. I have named them holy and they each bring the poems to me. look at the cursive of my flesh. it is how the stories arrive. it is how they leave. with me. intact. inseparable. complete.
The Women
where do I begin?
mami?
my tías?
my grandmother?
do I follow the bruises to El Salvador?
do I dissect each fist here in Los Angeles?
I am a freight train with no conductor
all I know is the blow of my whistle
a single question:
how did you survive the men?
Polaroid
my favorite photograph of my mother / her red dress / her long curls over one shoulder / her hands / small ships taking port on her lap / the couch / a land she calls hers / she smiles without parting her lips / her night sky eyes staring into the lens
my favorite photograph of my parents / they dance together / my mother and her red dress / her hand curled around my father’s shoulder / her bare arms / a new gold / my father’s thick hair / a black cloud above them / he smiles / my mother does not / she stares into the camera again
my favorite photograph of myself / my parents sit on the sand / Santa Monica Beach / the cars in the distance catch the sun in their metal / my parents are kissing / my mother’s legs shaped into a question mark / my father’s mustache / a stroke of danger / and there / in their eyes / a twinkle / me
Terremotos
y
they lived in a tiny house
with missing windows
so it always seemed
as if their home was squinting
its front yard
a tangled mess of balding hair
rusty lawn furniture,
old bicycles and two lemon trees
the kitchen’s linoleum
sang beneath
the mother’s shifting weight
as she washed dishes before bed
the father,
read his newspaper in the dining room
a bottle of vodka hidden beneath his chair
the radio tuned to
sad, slow
honey thick
boleros
spread
evenly over the dinner table
in the bedroom
the three sisters
wild even when silent
their books, poems
and drawings covered
every surface of the house
there were pets
sometimes a dog
sometimes a cat
sometimes a rabbit
or turtle
or pigeon
once for an hour
a baby possum
until the mother
made the second daughter
give it back
at nights
the tiny house
became a jail cell
with shouting matches
and riots
everyone
pushed and pushed
until the walls
threatened to burst
but never did
the mother
would return
to the kitchen
the father
would leave
in search of more drink
and the three sisters
would
laugh
loud
over the music
over the hurt
everyone fought over
but never spoke about
they would howl
their best wild howls
and the mother would threaten
to come out of the kitchen with a sandal
the father would sigh
calling them
terremotos
and they were
in that tiny house
they shook so good
you couldn’t tell
if things were the way they were
from disaster
or because
they liked it
that way
Mami’s Cooking
Mami says that every house should always have a pot of frijoles. Mami says that good pupusas aren’t only about the ingredients but also about how round they are. that every cup of coffee needs pan dulce. an egg, queso fresco and a tortilla can be a meal. the chicken needs more tomato sauce. she needs to bake something to warm up the house. banana bread because the bananas are going bad. keeps the stale rolls in the freezer to make bread pudding later. Mami says the cousins are coming over and need feeding. the neighbor brought over carne asada and she has to cook something to return with their plate. asks if I am ready for dinner. says try this. take a little bite. I put some away for you. Mami and her small kitchen. the rattle of her dishes. her heavy pans. her smile as we eat and say que rico. her dancing eyes when we ask for more. Mami and the way she feeds us her neverending heart. come taste this. I saved you some. do you want me to pour it into a bowl? I was waiting for you.
Excuses
o
my father’s father killed himself
and my father was only a child
when he found him hanging
from a mango tree
my great grandmother tried to love
&n
but he was a man, and you know how men are.
he started drinking more and more
then the civil war struck El Salvador like lightning
and he was tortured by soldiers
he never told me but I saw the scars
saw him crying to himself
I would ask what was wrong
and he would say
I didn’t deserve to know
and this is manhood, isn’t it?
and being a woman
is being an apology, right?
isn’t it being the other cheek?
my mother is a saint
she is rushing home at six o’clock
because her husband needs dinner
she is tears over the sink
and a tender goodnight
she is the girl three different men
tried to push themselves onto
they couldn’t help but want to take
didn’t need to ask because her beauty
was all the yes they needed
my father was one of these men
took her to a hotel room
told her, you are not leaving here
without being mine
then she was his because
she figured it was time she belonged to a man
nine months later there I was
and I am hers
didn’t it all work out?
In Our Family
u
in our family the husbands die on you early
and old age is spent
in churches or
with daughters
raising children
you are too tired
to love properly
you get phone calls on weekends
letters only the first Saturday of the month
visits yearly
everyone comes
with their noise and suitcases
their English that sounds as if
they were speaking
from beneath the ocean
your grandchildren forget their Spanish
speak it gargled and backwards
they hate the insects
the sun
the food
complain of boredom
claim all of the hammocks
almost kill the dogs and chickens
from the fright of their fireworks
lose your good pots down by the river
spread themselves all over the compound
they put out the candles on your altar,
hide your statue of the Virgin Mary in their bedsheets
refuse to pray the rosary with you
and are surprised when you come after them with a fly swatter
when you ask your daughter not to bring them next time
in our family the word grandmother is holy
and never said in vain
she is spoken of in reverence
and the younger generations
question her as if she were theology
calling cards become tickets to confessionals
all the children and their children
dialing the long numbers
to hear her voice
unfold itself like
dusty polaroids
kept wrapped in worn handkerchiefs
yellowed reminders
of where you came from
of where you’ve been
of what you are
in our family,
grandmothers are God
you come to them with hands extended
thankful and in awe
they survive all
become the only constant
the compass of our entire tribe
the men, they all die early
but God
sweeps up her porch
coils the long braid of her hair
into a knot held
at the nape of her neck
and stretches her arms wide
when everyone comes
home
one more time
Tamales
Mami. Tía Marina. Tía Reina. Tía Paz. Tía Morena. Tías with names forgotten. borrowed Tías. adopted Tías. cousins old enough to be Tías. all busy at the table.
I am a little girl with her curls pulled into bun. today I get to hold a ladle and scoop the masa onto the banana leaves. I pass it along to a Tía who adds the salsa. another adds chicken. another potato. another ejote. another wraps it and drops it into a pot the size of my body. Mami makes a joke. if no one brings presents we have plenty tamales to unwrap at midnight. everyone laughs at the same joke we hear every Christmas. the Tías gossip and I pretend not to listen. I watch as they laugh, stir pots and smooth their hands over their aprons. my sisters call my name. I ignore them. I am learning magic today.
Las Locas
the tía that threatened to jump off the fire escape if her
husband left to the bar
the one who chased her husband around the lemon trees
with a frying pan
the one who pretends to faint whenever she needs her
sons to stay
the one who drinks beer and plays poker
the one who had an affair
the prima who let the ex husband keep the children
the prima who has taken too many husbands to count
the one who joined the army and left for years
the one who doesn’t show up for family parties
the one who talks about dating women without hesitation
the childless one who drinks margaritas on mondays
the one that asks her mother if she regrets not having
more lovers
the one who lives out of her suitcase
who doesn’t cook or clean, who forgets to call,
who wears red lipstick and sheer shirts to thanksgiving
dinner
the chismosa no one tells scandals to
because she writes everything down
tell me about that time again
where you were free,
when you made a mess,
and were forgiven
the way we forgive the men
II.
before I knew
what I know now
before these
palm trees
loved me
back
1995
the summer I spent in Gainesville / long before love asked for my skin / when the blood came for the first time / while mami was thousands of miles away / I was learning to swim / trusting the water with my body / my uncle didn’t think I was doing it quickly enough / grabbed my life vest / took me far out into the lake / swim back / but I just floated there / crying / until my cousin / came / took my hand / led me back / where my toes touched sand / to this day / I still don’t know how / to swim
First Kiss
we were standing between the lemon trees / 16 years old / he said that girls with feathered bangs drove him crazy / my curls had no bangs / if they did they wouldn’t feather / like the pretty cholas / I smiled / but it wasn’t a real smile / more like something to fill the space between us / he said he liked me because I was nice to him / I felt something in my stomach / nothing like butterflies / they lied / it was painful / he asked if he could kiss me / I wanted to run and hide / I wanted to unzip my skin and let him wear it / he said my friends were pretty but I was funny / I nodded / I knew I couldn’t be both / we kissed / but / whenever he touched my hair / I remembered / I stopped telling jokes / nice girls rot like this / nice girls aren’t always nice / I learned / eventually
Thanksgiving
a
don’t touch your chiches too much or they’ll get all saggy
Tía Marina scolded me when I was fifteen
marveling over my growing body
you can tell when a girl has lost her virginity.
she gets hips, ass, her body turns into a woman.
Tío Alirio leans across the table to Silvana,
have you had sex yet?
when the first boy and I
lay naked on his parents’ bed
his face soft and flushed over mine
when he found his way into me
and my heart wasn’t where I kept it anymore
but instead on the ceiling, the wall,
the window facing the busy street
I was a sudden gasp and he a shattering of flesh
I dressed, snuck into my home
washed my face and hands,
joined my family for thanksgiving dinner
I held my breath as my uncle
