N
a p a l
m H e
a l t
h S p
a : R
e p o
r t 2
0 0 8
NANCY MERCADO
El
Coto
Laurel
Dinner
with mom
And
with tía Carmín
Consists
of a heavy soup
We
call Sancocho
It consists of stories
About
the exquisiteness
Of
grandmother’s cooking
How
she stretched a sliver of onion
And
little garlic cloves
During
the Second World War
Enough
to cook a pot
Of
beans for two nights
How
the taste of those beans
Could
never be duplicated
Dinner
with mom
And
with tía Carmín
Consists
of a warm sunset
White
curtains flowing
In
the kitchen
Annoying
mosquitoes
Under
the table
And
highball glasses
Filled
with passion juice
2004
In My Perfect Puerto Rico
My
gray mother would be
Combing
her mother’s white hair
On
their turquoise painted porch
Under
mango trees
Among hummingbirds
My
black grandfather
In
the next rocking chair
Happily
looking on
My
four-foot-eight cousin Sonia
Would
be out back
In
a wooden shack
Washing
clothes
Or
running in the garden
Tending
to her dogs
She
wouldn’t walk with a limp
Wouldn’t
be sick
She’d
have working kidneys
She’d
live past thirty
My
father would be hunting
All
over this side of the island
With
his best friend Angel Rodriguez
For
reusable items
Dumped
on the lush country side
They
would be recycling pioneers
I
would have a choice
Of
which cousin to visit
We
would still be young
And
beautiful
Yolanda
Lili
Wanda
Evelyn
Ivelise
Hilly
We
would still be together
And
not just old scattered pieces
Of
what we once were
2004
Homemade Hot Sauce
for mom
Mother
goes out on the hunt
In
search of prime specimens
Little
red peppers
Some
green
Her
market of choice
A
vegetable post by the side of the road
Year
after year you can find
The
old man there
Under
a perennial baking sun
His
makeshift market in the wind
Mother
slowly stalks the produce
Scrutinizes
the baby bananas
Pores
over the vianda
Pauses
to ask if I’d like her
To
cook some for dinner
Then
analyzes the aguacates
Turning
them over
Squeezing
them lightly as they rest
In
the palm of her wrinkled hand
Finally
she comes up on them
Chubby
as plum tomatoes
Their
skins shiny
Smooth
as plastic
Their
fiery nature screaming
From
inside glad sandwich bags
Where
they hang on a tree
Back
home mother
Patiently
washes each one
Grinds
up spices with her
Wooden
mortar and pestle
Pounds
with such force
The
hanging pictures
Over
the dinner table
All
dance to her cooking drum
And when her concert has ended
She
packs them into
An
old vinegar bottle
Adds
a fresh splash of vinegar to the mix
Then
promptly places
Her
concoction out doors to ferment
Under
a Puerto Rican sun
2004
Where My Father Is Buried
Where
my father is buried
The
earth becomes white from the scorching sun
Becomes
light as air
It
sweeps across his small gravestone
My
mother’s cherished visits to this place
Her
ritual of getting someone to drive her there
Of
going to the five and dime store
Of
diving into bins filled with plastic flowers
To
excavate the very brightest rose
Lily
or tulip she can possibly unearth
And
when she arrives
My
83-year-old mother kneels
With
old cut off T-shirt in hand
Wipes
away that light white earth
Claws
at the hard dirt
Makes
little holes there
To
plant those eternal flowers
On
either side of my father’s grave
2004
Iraq 2003
Soon
our children
Will
go off to war
Be
shipped out
Like
cheap products on barges
They’ll
believe every piece
Of
garbage told to them
Soon
the children will believe
They
are supermen
They
will leap tall buildings
In
a single bound
Soon
our children will plummet
To
their deaths
2004
I Told You
That
the implosion
Of
the United States
Would
occur in our lifetime
That
hatred would
Consume
itself
Bite
off its hands
Feed
on its entrails
Feed
on its own children
That
this would explode into
A
billion body parts like fireworks
On
the 4th of July
I
told you the sun would rise
One
dead mornings
Around
white picket-fenced corners
Waking
Dick and Jane
Turning
their faces toward the mirror
Crystallizing
the cries of dead bodies
Floating
down rivers
Of
massacres and mass graves
That
the U.S. in Bosnia
Would
take Oklahoma by surprise
That
the U.S.
In
the Middle East
In
Africa
Would
pay New York City a visit
That
U.S. policy makers
Would
meet in chandeliered-rooms
For
breakfast
For
lunch
For
dinner
To
toss stacks of paper around
Like
some ball game
White-collar
trash men
I
told you that assassins
Would
come back into style
That
the Dark Ages would thrive
In
the 21st century
I
told you that McCarthy
Would
miraculously
Come
back from the dead
2004