They got that fresh suburb air, none of that Cross Bronx asthma
from Robert Moses mowing through our borough
still choking on smoke from our burnt down homes.
They never played hopscotch in the projects.
One foot over elevator piss–
two over broken front door glass.
No handball slaps on the laundromat wall
near Jonathan’s spraypaint mural.
A 25-year-old memory of a son–forever 5.
Pride doesn’t grow when you only hear Héctor Lavoe
singing over sirens out a window
reflecting a cop’s offbeat red and blues.
So white must have been right for a Bronx girl
making connections with nearsighted eyes.
There were no Bronx girls at the library–
none in the required reading classics.
Bodies blossoming and picked too soon,
Hey ma, come here I’ve got something for you.
On TV, they write us like tragedies
only worth telling if we’re knocked up teens or no name maids.
Straighten up and close your legs or it’ll be true.
You color yourself in peach and leave the browns in the box.
Pronounce your last name without the acento.
Scrub yourself clean
as every ounce of sazón runs clear down the drain.
Mirror them until you can’t even recognize yourself.
Until there’s none of you left.
