La Matriarca

The embroidered blue jays on her kitchen curtains

Watch as her wrinkled hands

Melt suds onto freshly emptied china,

Caso Cerrado more worthy of her gaze

As a grain of rice is set to dry

On the fine, plastic dishrack.

La cafetera whistles

As the black brew spills into one

Of a litany of cafecito cups,

All depicting la isla, Cuba

That she hasn’t returned to

Since the departure of Spring in ‘94.

The faded-blue porcelain sparrow on her napkin holder

Points me to the strawberry candies

Trapped in a crystal dish on the table.

My eyes begin to drool

And rosy brown nails pick

Three out, like a claw machine,

Into my sticky hands.

Mami grits her teeth, eyes bulging

She hates when I groak

But Mima’s chiclet teeth

Between smiling lips

Tell me it’s my right to.

The tweeting sky-blue parakeets on her back porch

Gossip as Mima and my mother do.

The porch swing squeaks as I drift

To sleep on Mima Aida’s lap

As I recall this was once home.

Her carnelian earrings my mobile,

Begging me to dream of memories

When her open arms rescued los Sapitos

In foreign land, rocking my infant gordos

As mami wept for the homeland that

Mima prepared in the kitchen.