Consuelo

Mami says you waited,
she says abuelito
promised you a house,
a few acres of land,
to finally plant your
arboles de lima.

One day
he wrote you a letter
from across the border
Compralos, it read.

You raced to the next town,
where mami says, you filled your arms
with arboles de lima, aguacate, naranja,
higo and misperos —
a bouquet of promising color.

You dug your hands in the soil
and planted your trees with a fury
as if this was your salvation.

But instead of the house,
instead of the land,
he took you to gather
the carnations of a country
you never really wanted.

And away
your trees grew,
their branches thickened,
their roots lengthened.

While you—
You remained
A mountain broken,
A river dried,
A thunderous night that never again carried
the brightness of the morning.