brown land

of my birth

brown skin

of my face

warm breeze

rustling palms

foreign tones

foreign voices

shaken, held

by those who loved

the sound

of my arrival

I arrived curious,

ready to explore every aspect

of my surroundings—crawling

climbing, standing, falling/down

walking, running, falling/down

grabbing, hitting, falling/down.

Biting (when necessary)—getting bit

by my mother—in return.

Bossing (when necessary)—getting bossed

by every/one—in return.

I learned . . .

to keep my mouth shut

I learned . . .

to be a good girl, a niña bonita

I learned . . .

to keep my intentions hidden

Mangoes that, as a child, I’d bite into

releasing their sweet and tangy aroma

Mangoes so plentiful, thousands are transported daily

in large wicker baskets, balanced on heads

of dark-skinned women wearing colorful aprons

embroidered along the edges, headed to the market

Roberto Huembes, el Oriental, Municipal Masaya

Mangoes that, as a child, I’d eat with both hands, wet stickiness

dripping along the sides of my mouth, onto my hands and arms

Mangoes so plentiful, thousands are hustled daily

by women walking city streets—sweating, slicing

calling out to those who walk by: niña, señora, gordo, amor

served in clear plastic bags, ripe and sweet

or green and tangy with a pinch of salt

Mangoes that, as a child, I’d eat until the seed was fleshless

leaving strands of pulp stuck between my teeth

Mangoes so plentiful, thousands fall to the ground daily

abandoned and rotting—oranges mixed with yellows

mixed with reds mixed with greens—covered in dirt

swarming with gnats and flies

crushed and dirty mangoes

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

even while sitting still and holding steady

even with the appearance of placidness

a fire burns inside

makes me act for the simple sake of invoking

a reaction, any reaction

diagnosed with ADD as a child

my mother refused to feed me

their poison, she knew to protect

my fire, my non-conforming

uncontrollable nature

my passion charges every intimacy

borders on obsession

the few I let in, those I let see

know the heat, feel the burn

of my love

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

Tomboy

n. a girl who dresses and acts like a boy, especially in playing

physical games that boys usually play

1

when I was ten, I ached

for a BMX or a Mongoose

an extension of myself, a part of my identity

a bike to reflect my desire to be tough, like the boys

I played tackle football after school at my babysitter’s

my punch, thrown in the face when called for

stung like a boy’s

my father’s hand-me-down gift

of a light blue Huffy with a banana seat

the one I tried to make better with

black spray paint, made worse

my fear of getting left behind paled in comparison

to my embarrassment of riding

an ugly, sissy bike

2

I was a tomboy: curious and unafraid

they saw a niña bonita

I wanted to take karate and play drums

they paid for flute, ballet, voice lessons

I wore plaid shirts and flannel button-downs

jeans torn at the knees, tennies with laces undone

they bought me pretty dresses

I liked my hair long, uncombed, in my face

they took my picture and said, “One day you will see

this photograph, and you’ll be embarrassed.”

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

The calling of my name in Spanish, “Es-teh-lee”

reminds me who I am

it’snotthesameinEnglish

inEnglishwhenmynameiscalledifeelseriousinside

likeineedtopayattention

concentrate

lestiamdiscovered

lestpeoplerealizethatiamnotontopofthings

thatiamsloooooowwww

notalertnotreadytoconquer

thatiamdivided

In Spanish, when I hear my name

it’s okay that I daydream

and like to sit for hours in a hammock

staring into the clouds

listening to the trees

feeling the wind on my face

In Spanish, when I hear my name

it’s perfectly natural for me—as it is for any child—to be a poet

to stop and stare at the men who help la viejita mount the bus

to notice how it takes three men to hoist her basket of fruit—

the one she carries on her head, daily—on top of the bus

In Spanish, when I hear my name

I remember that I am seen and cared for

by my aunts, my grandmother, my mother

even when I used to get in trouble

underneath their anger, their rage, their fear

I knew that I was loved

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

when a girl’s sense of self

derives.from.the.father/she.wonders

“does he approve?”—“am I ok?”

when bonds are broken

between.the.mother.and.the.father/she.wonders

“do they approve?”—“am I ok?”

when the father is coddled by family who repeatedly narrate

that.the.father.was.broken.by.his.father/she.wonders

“is he ok?”—“am I ok?”

when the mother wonders if it was experimentation with LSD

that messed up the father – “because drugs are bad, you know”

– and encourages girl to be close with her father because

mother.lost.her.father.too.soon/shewonders

“is she ok?”—“am I ok?”

when girl has low self-esteem/doesn’t know her true self/

is disconnected from her body/doesn’t follow her intuition/

seeks attention from men— dressing for them, looking to them

for validation.and.eye.contact/shewonders

“does he approve”—“am I ok?

i was brown

they were white

mi mamá spoke broken english

theirs spoke proper english

we lived in an apartment

they lived in a house

we ate chicken and rice

liver with onions and salad

gallo pinto, plátanos, tortillas, y repollo

they ate steak and potatoes

pork chops and fries

hamburgers and hotdogs

my name was stelli

theirs was stacy and amy

beth and mary

shary and kim

i was born in nicaragua

they were born in los estados unidos

i was quiet and polite

they were loud and spoke back

i was one child

they were many

my parents were divorced

theirs were together

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

hand sliced

skin and chards

bloody river flowing

like rapids, over and around

river rocks

a continuous flow

of blood

in the sink, on the floor

till it runs dry

leaving behind a

wooden costume

Cau/ca/sian

—successful.articulate.efficient—

—outgoing.engaged.certain—

—positive.stable.happy—

—busy—

“Ni/ca”

—hija.nieta.sobrina (I belong)—

—doctora (I am accomplished)—

—americana (I have priviledge)—

—bonita (genetic bonus)—

Storm/y

—sad.distant.gloomy—

—hard-to-get-to-know—

—complex.uncertain.contradictory—

—angry.unhappy—

Sun/ny

—fun.funny—

—optimistic.happy—

—curioius.adventurous—

—deep.loving.carefree—

—creative—

having been born unto her mother—mis/taking

mother’s conditioning, mother’s inheritance, mother’s identity

as her own—generat/ing mother’s thoughts, mother’s beliefs, mother’s emotions

as her own—becom/ing what others wanted, needed—never seen, never heard

as her own—until the day she be/came aware of her needs, her wants, her thoughts

started to under/stand who she was—sensitive, highly

curious, fiery—she released her mother and took a breath

on her own

I like this time alone, at home
to think, reassess, figure out
what truly matters 

Why do I feel pressure, still?
Why do I want to distance myself further, still?
away from the Internet, from people, from family, from friends
from work—the expectation of work—the clock, the Zoom—
the fucking Zoom

Why do I feel pressure, still?
to show up, to apply makeup, to think
about the colors of my shirt, the part of my hair
the backdrop, the lighting, the sound
of my voice, the expression on my face, lifted up
by my smile 

those who have eyes to see, understand
my need to rest, sleep, think—or not
my need to make the bed—or not
take out the trash—or not
take a bath—or not
cook, clean, pick up after myself—or not

those who have eyes to see, understand
my need to just lie here, and die—or not
those who know me, understand
I will come back when I am ready, when
no one misses or remembers my name
when I can be free, truly
to do what I want with no one watching, waiting, expecting
me to show up

I will plant seeds of my own, I will be fed
on my own, I will become
what I need, want
all on my own