They Must Remember
Mami, this must have a name.
The pavement will drown soon
BIO
Andrea Aguayo is an emerging poet who lives in Oklahoma. Her poem “What Life Became After You Left” appeared in the premiere issue of the Tulsa Review. Currently, she has an Associate of Arts degree in English. One of her dreams is to become one of the poets you wake up needing to read while drinking a cup of something, tea or coffee, with sunbeams.
if the rain doesn’t stop pouring.
Today, I woke up to the portrait of my grandparents.
In the dimness of the living room,
I saw a woman in a simple white dress.
Instead of a ghost, abuelita stood before me as an angel.
Did you know that she embraced me in a dream a few days ago?
I must tell you that this is my second cup of coffee.
It’s 6 a.m. and the last emotion I want to feel is sadness.
I woke up and read a few pages from a thick literature book
and Anne Sexton committed suicide again for me.
You see, Mami, not all humans sleep before 12 a.m.
I wonder if your mother prays for me before she goes to sleep.
I wonder if she would name me
a poet.
Mami, this must have a name.
The pavement will breathe again.
We’ll go to work to pay the rent.
If in your mother’s forgetting
you find yourself unable to tell the time and the day,
may I mark this date on your calendar with dramatic Oklahoma weather,
unlit candles, and a cluttered kitchen table.
I will remember.
Our living must have a name in history.
In your forgetting I find myself unable to hear the rain.
There will come a day
when abuelita will no longer pray
for me to wake up safe and happy with a cup of coffee.
Mami, there will come a day when your kitchen table
will be uncluttered.
There will come a day when the thunder will roar without me,
but these words will mean something.
They must remember.