Across Oceans

And land

Working to connect

One phone line

With another

Like an umbilical cord

These $5, $10, $20

Square cards are more than plastic

These calling cards

Have heartbeats

We survive through phone lines

A cycle of dialing

Numbers

On the other line waited abuela

On the other line waited memories

On the other line waited birthday wishes

That should have been given in person

While eating guava cake

But we were here

And you were there

On the other line we waited

By payphones we waited

For your voice we waited

That is all we had

My dad waited for you

he still does

How do you dial a loved one

When your fingers have work out

From weaving too many memories

When you voice has changed

Since the last time you saw them in person

Your bones have broken from their absence

Your lips have withered

Your face is the only clue left

Of what they might look like now

Perhaps it’s best to not look into the mirror

Perhaps you are too ashamed of holding on to old memories

I can still hear Abuelita Alegria’s voice

Abuelita, cómo está Ecuador…

Si, Abuelita, prometo que regreso…

And then

A long pause

You hear her shuffling the phone

Trying to remember which side to talk from

She is not familiar with this technology

I call it old school

Some call it poverty

Abuelita’s gentle voice

Rocks me back to memories of when

She carried me as a baby

My face lays flat on her back

She hangs up and I lay gripping on to her words

Trying not to let go

Never enough minutes

Calling cards

Don’t have

Heartbeats

Anymore

They just hang

In the store

Teasing you

Now, dad stops at the bodega

For other reasons

His mouth curls up around the rim of the bottle

Longing for one more conversation

I think he believes that with every beer

He gets closer to heaven

Closer to her Closer to home

(and secretly I wish that was true)

The phone goes unused

(like the passport in my wallet)

No more dialing

In his palms rests spaces where my grandma is buried

And even then the lines on his hands create borders

Restricting him from getting too close

Dad wants to hold my hand

But mostly we look at each other hoping to find comfort

He says that I look like Abuela

My mother works on the23rd floor of a glass building in the middle of Times Square as aserver of a catering company / My father rides the train home from work, in hisbackpack he carries a pair of Timbs with blotches ofoil / Neither of them have eaten/ The thing about America is that migrantworkers go days without properly eating so that America can function / Mymother who goes by Maggy will stand for 8 hours straight bouncing on the ballsof her feet to catch any demands by white professionals that for some reason knowhow to work a google drive but have no idea how to make their own coffee / Myfather who goes by Segundo ironically is always first to cook, first to burnhis hands, first to serve, first to deliver so that men in suits can get theirrush lunch order / My mother & father never get days off or paid holidaysor bonuses or a 401k or healthcare / My mother & father depend on the powerof Vicks, hot tea, and prayers to la Virgen / Sometimes my father andmother do not feel like mine - they feel like they belong to this country / Mymother does not see father / My father does not see his brother / My siblingsdon’t see mom or dad / America sees them at all times / America sees ourparents more often than we do at 4am, at 7pm, at 11pm, and midnight / My 9 yearold brother clasps his tiny brown hands to pray Diositoplease take care of mom / My father carries our old school photos in hiswallet, folded gently not to crease our faces, this is how he looks after us,this is how he holds on to us / My mother carries a large purse with all ourdocuments because just in case / They both accommodate America’s routineby moving around birthdays and bautismos and weddings/ America is a spoiled brat wanting more and more and more / America screams GoBack To Your Country, Stop Stealing Our Jobs and simultaneously whines Whereis my lunch?

Mi mama se levanta

A las 7 de la mañana, se baña

Sus pies bendecidos en agua

Es divina

Después, empieza con su maquillaje

Her brown hands

Gently holding the black eyeliner

(for a migrant woman these are lines she welcomes)

She places her dark brown hair in a bun

Carefully placing bobby pins

Like carefully placing lipstick

Like carefully placing hope on this land

Mami’s knowledge teaches me that my wings

Are meant to be thick

Meant to take up space

(these are rituals I grew up with)

So I repeat

Every morning creating self into existence

Between lipstick and softness

Between borders and belonging

(these are ways I survive)

So, I repeat

Arching my eyebrows

Jewelry over my neck

Red nails pointy enough to hold homes

Homes I am building

(homes I left)

So, I repeat

Adorning all my genders

(like the gospels never sung at my church)

This becomes biblical

Let this be an ode to femmes of color

Whose celestial eye shadows crack the heavens

Whose thick thighs resurrect possibilities

So, I repeat

What glory we incite

What glory we create

What glory we are!