Vitsentzos Kornaros,
the only poet
who shares my birthday
and I can’t
even
read his shit.
“To live in the Borderlands” you write.
Señora, I am barely surviving.
Google Translating rejatas mid poem,
Realizing I spelled rajetas wrong,
Fixing it.
Still don’t understand the slur.
What am I doing here?
I grew up in Georgia.
There aren’t supposed to be any
Mexicans here.
Right between ass-crack and the middle-of-fuck nowhere.
Ni te entiendo, mujer.
Llevamos la misma tierra
en nuestra sangre
pero ni te entiendo.
And now I’m sitting here
trying to figure out how to tell
fulana de tal
from creative writing
that I know who
Gloria Anzaldúa is.
Her most insightful piece of advice on my poetry.
“You should check her out, Rocio.
I read How to Tame a Wild Tongue and loved it.
You remind me of her. I think you’d like her.”
Let this be my disclaimer.
Just so you know, fulanas of the world.
All of us
know
who Gloria Anzaldúa is.
And yes, Felipe Herrera, too.
Congrats, you know two Mexican poets.
Good for you, you woke queen.
I stay,
zapateando footnotes
to somehow bridge this border
between
Yo and you.
Knowing that they’ll
never know
that zapateando
does not make any sense
in the context of that sentence.
Gloria,
me siento aislada.
I feel alone out here.
Like they’re all trying to help me
but don’t know how.
And I keep praying
that one day
I will find someone
who speaks my language,
Southern campesina sociolect,
Cholita del Sur-ish,
Whatever the fuck it is.
And I keep praying
That if not that
Then at least one day
I’ll be able to hear you read poetry
In whatever universe lies beyond today
And feel
Safe
In that enveloping tongue
That doesn’t sound like me
But understands me
All the same.