the city makes me want to jump from this fire escape

i cry emergency
y estaba bebiendo demasiado
y estaba fumando hierba
y no podía usar mi pluma

bring them to me anyway
Papel. Silencio. (Please)
i could use the night
to imagine another life
where i could fly
or light a fire with my hands
or breath in sun
pero sólo tengo humo en el aire
y whiskey en mi corazón
no tengo alas rotas
tengo nada

solamente la ganas 
para brincalme
solamente la ganas
pa' que me mates

the sirens 
screaming
to each other
at all hours
at all hours
at all hours

Titi y Casa

I.

on the road i was waiting for your resurrection
as i hid my crying in the reflected valleys
of the passenger-side window

it is hard to accept that you're not still there—en cieba sure

& yet it was easy to accept this rain
as if it is always raining in juncos
because it is always raining when i am here

the veijo cementario doesn't change

i am surprised how much of our family is inside this small tomb
i am surprised by the stone's misspelling of our family name i am
surprised i know your body is here

in my veil i cry my worst cry & everything is crying with me

the wind in comforting cold
the air as light san pedritos at night
even the solid ground as brittle as bone

II.

permítanme hacer mi paz y protéjanme pa siempre please


III.

on the road we drive through memorias de cieba sur

of childhood games of policía or legartijo earrings
of wild horses thin as bones
& chickens eaten by the chupacabras
of mi Titi with her hands as soft as storms
as the cancer ran through her
of the venomous stares of family
broke me of my wordless mouth of mute lightning

of walking down & up the hill of PR-934
in hundred degree weather
dodging cars with grocery bags in our hands

& then my house la casa de mis abuelos

IV. 

the locks are rusty but still turn
the wall behind the house is a gust away from crashing
a dead snake is under the dining table
rust has eaten the hinges off the kitchen cabinets
even the cobwebs are covered in dust
and the ghost of spiders hug the corners

my house is a scar of the storm Maria
my house is a bone of the earth
my house is a ritual of memories
my house was never my home

the house tells me to let her go
the house mourns it couldn't do more
but be inside these poems

V.

Titi, fuiste mi abuela y esa será siempre la verdad

siempre recordaré tu amabilidad
siempre serás el colibrí en mi pecho
siempre estarás

no voy a llorar por perder la oportunidad de decir esta verdad

Titi, fuiste mi abuela

Hoy we stand at the top of El Morro


1. 

you can see the misreading of a dream:
a long field empty with kites rising
from the lungs of children & there are
no cannons here just trash bins for the

ammunition of our blood—there are only
walls here walls tourists ascend walls 
that stay walls stay quiet as if 
there aren't cages here as if 
there was never blood as if
history is just a song that never imprints into
our hearts
& wars could never happen again & wars
have never happened & wars are made of water

2.
commercialized reenactments of colonial condition

i have never seen so many pendejos dress in the ghosts of the ancestors who would
murder them
under the oppressive stares
of stock investors on vacation reenacting their own colonial fantasies of
expensive piragua & clean bathrooms for a
dollar

i have never wanted to see a city fall so fast into the ocean
even if we're standing on top i would happily fall
on the swords of the cliff just to see something move forward

all i want to see here is El Morro covered in masks
not for its protection but for mine


3. 

i thought a man kissed the ground at el morro
as if he was finally home
& i understood because in every photo album
boricuas stand by the fields with the Garita del Diablo
hanging like a body in the background surrounded
by the terrifying blue of the sky La Garita which smells
of the piss of a million bathrooms across a million years
La Garita which houses the fantasies of navel battles
with imaginary pirates La Garita that can only speak
in crashing waves & invasive plants & iguanas that recite poems
in their spit


4.

I will say it clearly: 

El Morro is the reminder of the wounds we were birthed from
the first wounds of the conquistadors on the Taino
the first wounds of the españoles on the African slave
the first wounds on the consciousness of future generations 
who sought the solace of light skin when our roots are obsidian mirror
black & beautiful & worthy of a future

we hold our wounds with pride as we should
but i wonder if the scars have made us blind


5. 

it is the iguanas that truly own the fortaleza
every broken brick & patch of moss & grain of sand
that tears against these walls
it is the iguanas that speak revolution spitting at
overdressed women who claim ownership of their bodies
it is the iguanas that speak of poetry through me here
as the sun bares us of every scar


6.

we follow a bailadora without song back toward viejo san juan
we follow the drumming of our hearts through every misstep
we follow the aches of sunburn on our backs & peeling shoulders
we follow the roads back south where it is safe from vendepatrias
(at least in the drive down)
we follow the streaks of gods on top of el yunque until we are free

Isa Guzman is a poet, playwright, and Brooklyn College MFA graduate from Los Sures, Brooklyn. Dedicating her work to the hardship, traumas, and political struggle within the Boricua Diaspora, especially the LGBTQ+ (Boricuir & Trans) communities within it. Isa helps lead several projects including The Titere Poets Collective, La Esquina Open Mic, and La Cocina Workshop! She has published her work through several magazines, including The Acentos Review, The Poetry Project (Footnotes), Public Seminar, and also appears in several anthologies, such as Birds Fall Silent in the Mechanical Sea and The Breakbeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNext. Her plays have been featured in the Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe Theater Festival and the Downtown Urban Arts Festival. Follow her @Isa_Writes.