BIO
jo reyes-boitel : writer, motivator, mother, daughter to oya and obatala, rabid music listener, percussionist and lover. texas transplant, by way of minnesota | florida | mexico | cuba.
Cheo
Cheo
had beauty - hair in waves
pulled
from a pocket comb,
brillante
giving him some shine.
His
hazel eyes could get him a plate of food and a smile,
ended
up making him one of a handful of Marielitos
invited
by Castro to leave his prison cell,
leave
his home, for American freedom.
He
traveled by night on an unlit boat
cramped
with dozens of others. Compass mimicking
a
star’s trajectory. The waves below
easing
into their own course.
Once
on sand and soil his feet continued their drift.
When
we found him, the cousin of a dear friend,
we
claimed him our Tío.
He
spent his weekends with us,
the
newspaper's daily crossword always in hand,
marveling
as the children spoke perfect English
while
teaching himself a word daily.
One
across or one down.
He
might sit with us for five minutes or five hours
but
always ended his visits abruptly. His distant eyes
considering
how departure is never over.
We
held onto him
the
way memory holds most just enough
despite
his always trying to let go.
The
reminder of ocean waves on another shore,
of his
body within its swelling waves,
bodies
under a low moon. The immensity of that loss
would
wake within him a search for home.
We
would find him up to his knees in the pool, or
walking
along the pier, or laying back
in a tub.
Water
made me, he
would say.
Rolls
within me, brought me here.
Could
have killed me
but
never did.
ode to the broken clavicle
my brother holds a scattering
of broken clavicles his lips whisper
across each tender reed
resting in its light sleep,
warm cavities of bone
secret keepers of the possible:
arms outstretched,
the lightness of this flight
instead cradling secrets
dark flights, fists
crashing
down
startled, each girl shudders
but cannot
escape
his words splinter
into their hollow
there is no story
left
in a broken clavicle
no divination for
its caged girl
foxy ladies
a gazebo sits in the middle of the park
pride flags tied to its railing, small
groups come together
lipstick marks on cheeks
add a berry blush as the heat of summer
eases down
the night is marked by glitter slicking
across shoulders
and the sun, setting along an outline
of trees,
leads us into the street. The brave
among us
wear heels, manage tiptoeing through
the grass
There are some short women in our
group,
and some men, but by far the most
beautiful are
the tall ones. Beloved, beautiful
protectors
with voices like a chorus that will
shut down
hard on anyone trying to get into our
party.
Women gathering always seems to bring
some
fool out from the shadows. We are new
women,
walking down the street, heading to the
bar
for drinks, where we will make toasts
to our freedom,
where we will rise up with our new
found loves.
Our shoulders close together,
conversations
sweet and golden in this evening sky.
How the stars come out to meet us.
How the moon shows like an overfilled
cup.