Susana Praver-Pérez

I’ve crumpled my calendar,
days folding into themselves
without demarcations—
like a world without borders
that divide

rivers
down
their
middle

as if a country
could own the water
could own the wind.

My wild garden keeps time for me.
Yesterday, the first freesias appeared
like a quiet explosion
or magician’s act—

And I knew it was February.

I placed a few fragile stems in a jar,
breathed in
the perfume of persistence.
In a world swaying like a rope bridge,
the scent steadies
my feet.

It’s still winter, but we haven’t seen rain
for months—
orange nasturtiums are curling,
lavender blooms turning gray.

But the oxalis don’t seem to care—
their bright yellow faces
drinking sunlight
as they spread green arms
across the lawn
as if any kind of calendar was nothing
more than a puffball in the air.

Eyelids droop—
not like tecatos
slumped and scratching
scabbed and sun-burnt skin,
but with sober silence
soaking the air after storm
turned all to ruin.

Body bare—
not like sunbathers
on Condado’s beach,
curated bodies
coated with Bain de Soleil,
but the nakedness of wind and want
and the bitter scent of dread.

Rooster in arms—
not a blue-plumed gallo de pelea
wearing spurs, sporting men
betting next month’s rent
for a better chance,
but a gallo that dreams
a gallina and golden eggs.

On a tall concrete wall—
not a factory facade
in Trastalleres, barrio peppered
with printers’ and mechanics’ shops,
but a wall turned auburn phoenix
on Santurce’s rebirthed streets,
acrylics flowing like amniotic fluid
in the muralist’s hands.

NOTE: This is an ekphrastic poem written in response to the mural by Luís Pérez that appears on the front cover of my book, Hurricanes, Love Affairs, and Other Disasters, as well as a tribute to the Santurce Es Ley street art movement.