It is five o’clock in Callao and it’s
getting dark and there’s a piece of
me somewhere on this sidewalk that
I can’t find, and you are of no help,
you are of no use.
You are just The Peruvian now. A face
that floats into a crowd in Lima, a voice
that echoes in an alley in el Rímac, a palm
tree in San Borja. I was always so sad
with you, and I didn’t know why. I thought
it was me, a missing jigsaw puzzle piece that
would be found under a neighbors sofa in a year
or two. It was never me. In the end, it became
a lot of you as you lashed out and I withdrew
so deep into myself that there are moments that
I still don’t remember my name, like the millisecond
of time between the changing film reels.
The happy moments were with your sisters in Lima.
Pisco sours and anticuchos in Barranco
and then we went to that bar that used to be a
home from your colonial-era, and I could swear that
I still have the business
card in a purse somewhere. I was digging
through my jewelry box for a pair of earrings,
and I found my rings and for a second it was almost amnesiac,
whose are these? Where did they come from? And the
soles were at the bottom, and I remembered paying for
lúcuma ice cream with them at Larcomar, the
breeze whispering into my hair.
I remember your Tío Pepe and how he
treated me like I’d always wished you did. Belly laughs.
Hermosísima. Tia Flor and the jewelry she gave me.
La Chata and the way she gripped me and told me
nunca olvides, tú eres una mujer bellísima. Empanadas
with your sister, and that little cafe right near her apartment.
Challe and how he made that entire dinner to welcome me
to his country. Your sister and I hanging out windows on
either side of the china cabinet, fumando y hablando, and
all of Lima lay before us. Julio showing me how to find the
perfect mango. He is the reason I never buy mangoes
anymore. The hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Sirquillo
where we ate chicharrones with pan francés. The human
bones under la iglesia de San Francisco, and how I wanted to
climb in with them. All the promises you made. Punto Azul
restaurant with your entire family, the fans blowing in my hair,
a band-aid over the problem. I still couldn’t stop sweating
and you through gritted teeth telling me to finish all of my
food, even though you knew how sick I was, because Tía
Perla was paying, and please, I don’t want my mother finding
out how ungrateful you are. Standing at the edge of
Larcomar and wondering if I jumped, would I go headfirst into
the rocks, or would God give me wings with which to fly away?
A disagreement in the park, your voice filled with contempt
telling me to stop behaving like a child, I was only mad
because I liked being mad. The smack that echoed in my
head as my open palm hit your cheek. The apologies I made.
The man who walked past me and groped my breasts through
my shirt, and how you mocked me for being as shaken
as I was. Yelling at me to say my d’s, you are married to
a Peruvian and not a Cuban, don’t you ever learn? Don’t
look at my cousin like that, I know how you American women
are. Coffee and a suspiro limeño with your sisters, and you
looking me up and down, and well, I hope you didn’t eat too
much. You need to look good for me. Whining about
having to get up early to take me to the airport.
Sitting with your brother as he told me how to stay safe in
Bogotá; pointers I didn’t really need but I appreciated the
gesture, anyway. I went to go catch my plane and when I turned
around to say goodbye, you were already gone. Your
brother waving and smiling,¡adiós, que te regreses
bien pronto! ¡Un día vaya yo a ir a tu país!
You were impatient on the sidewalk. You
could never wait to get away, and I still mean
the things I didn’t say.
