Tree Poem Week–#6: El Tamarindo

Un Arbol Que Puede Cambiarte La Vida

el tamarindo es un arbol que
puede cambiarte la vida
si nace en la esquina de
la plaza de un pueblo
olvidado por el reloj,
si le construyen un banco de cemento
abajo, y si
llegas alli para sentarte

el tamarindo es un arobol que
puede cambiarte la vida
si lo dejes.
si buscas la sombra de sus
ramas desordenadas cuando la luna
revela los secretos
de la plaza en
blanco y negro.
puedes enamorarte allí mismo
sin darte cuenta,
con preguntas susurradas
detrás de su tronco

el tamarindo es un arbol que
puede cambiarte la vida.
el amor te puede
dislucionar.
puede levantarse de repente
como un pajaro espantado y
ir a hacer su nido
bajo el techo de otra

pero el tamarindo
no,
ni la luna
tampoco

Tree Poem Week–#4: El Guanacaste

Ear Tree

be careful what you say
the guanacastes are
listening

you could mistake them for
dead in early march with
those seed pods on naked branches

their name means “Ear Tree” in
a language none of us speak but
don’t let that fool you

Guanacaste with seed pods, getting new leaves

Tree Poem Week–#2: Los Robles

Los Robles

Gerardo me dijo que los robles
son malos
que yo estaba loca
de no sembrar eso
cerca de la casa

quien sabe porque se secó

ya son veinte años y a mi
lo único que un roble me ha tirado del cielo
es una lluvia de flores
humedas como claveles
con el coraje de nacer bajo un
sol abrasador
en el mes del viento feroz que las
arranca de las ramas donde brotan
apenas se muestran
las caras

Tree Poem Week– #1: El Mango

If you’re not familiar with the trees of the tropical dry forest, let me introduce you to some of my friends.

Company of Mangos

I cannot live one more day without
the company of mango trees.
How am I supposed to breathe
without their green certainty
exhaled into the world?
There is no other way
to survive.
Who else will hear my prayers and
whisper them to heaven?
Their roots pushing down
show me where to
put my feet.
Their parakeets remind me when to
stop sleeping.

Albertina Talking to Jaguars

a poem for a girl who isn’t born yet about a woman who has passed on

Your bis bis abuela
Albertina
knew about the danger of
jaguars at the quebrada.
She remembered when the
mapmakers came to town and
tried to change its name to
something holy like
Santa Barbara down the road, or
San Lazaro further on.
She said she told them no.

Your mamá was
too little to listen to stories back
when Albertina’s mind
was clear, and then Albertina
started seeing angels.
She walked
barefoot to Santa Cruz with
comales on her head and
sold them each for one colon
to buy sugar and
coffee–
things she couldn’t grow or grind herself.
Then she walked home.

She knew the old stories
the old ways.
She had seven sons and
no husband to obey.
Me decía “mi nieta”
because she knew I belonged to her
even after she forgot my name, and
sat on the porch talking
to jaguars until
she turned one hundred.

Machetes

She threatens the children
with machetes–
the handle,
not the blade.

¡Si no estudias
vas a quedar como
tu tío
cortando caña
todo el día en el
puro sol!

And the children,
terrified of the sun
which will burn them
through their clothes,
pick up their pencils,
open their books,
grimly copy
A
B
C