QU EER PEE RP UB LIC O ATI NS
SELECTED POEMS BY ROBERTO C. CHAVEZ
for my soulmate who deserves my love a thousand times over
TABLE OF CONTENT
The Cut is Deep
1
Letter to Who-Could-Have Been: A Painful Memory
3
Portrait of a Girl’s Tears
5
All About My Father
7
Not In This Neighborhood
9
TH E is
cu T
e dE
p
For John Manuel Abreu-Arias
I began choking on blood that night, with my head between my legs, trying not to get it all over my clothes, but to no avail. The world was spinning around me and I couldn’t remember where I was but all I knew for certain was that it was night and I wasn’t safe. I was tossed aside after a brutal beating, with bruises as souvenirs and cuts as reminders that I will never be safe no matter how hard I tried; no matter how badly I tried to pass with my clothes or mannerisms; no matter how little public displays of affection given to my boyfriend or even other male friends. I will always be a target. Though I processed this, less eqloquently, while my spit ran red And those thoughts still spill out freely since the cut is deep.
letter a
painful
to memory
I asked Mami about you by accident, Not knowing you were once a part of us, And she said it was so many years ago When you tried to, but could not, be born into this family. She said she nearly forgot the pain of your memory It was so long ago, well before I was born Yet you released a flood of tears from her eyes And I stood like a pillar of salt Hearing our mother’s tale. That Christmas season Her belly was swollen with joy because of you, And there was already a godmother chosen And all were happy, But God decided against gracing you. Mami woke up one day to find Blood coming from your nest within her. She rushed to the hospital and found out She lost you. Overwhelmed with grief But concerned for others, Mami forbade Papi to tell the family.
who
could have
been
Why ruin Christmas, she thought. She wiped her tears and he hid his woe, And they smiled for everyone As if nothing had happened. That night the partygoers saw her still swollen belly, Rubbed it even, hoping to feel you kick, But you were not there anymore. And Mami died inside. And Papi found himself In the corner, drinking. And the smiles kept on coming. With family photos and toasts to you. They had to smile too, Smile to hide the pain of losing you. And when they party was over and the Christmas tree was down, Mami called your godmother And they cried All night long. I wish I could give you a name, Or know what to call you, But I can’t. I’m afraid To reopen that wound. But I do know this: I would have been Your loving little brother
PORTAIT OF A GIRL’S TEARS
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All About My Father Now the Ecuadorian flag Has no place on the night of Halloween. It would seem strange To hang the tricolor flag Just like it would be strange To hang the American flag On such a night. Yet, on such a night, My father hangs the flag proudly As if it is Ecuador’s Independence Day. My mother, who is much more Americanized, Berates him and makes him take down The flag of yellow, blue and red Because on this holiday Any kind of patriotism Makes no sense at all.
NOT
in
this
d o o h r o b neigh A Performance Poem
We can’t hold hands here, Not in this neighborhood. I’m not ashamed of us, just worried about you babe.
O N H E
RE
But we don’t speak of those fears That lay deep in the back of our minds, Because it’s an unspoken rule That is common law, A law that is simplified into a whisper:
T
I know the fear of eyes staring at us, Possibly turning vile, Images of glass bottles being thrown, the sound of shouts growing, Or a hand becoming a fist, connecting to the back of a skull, A skull broken in After being curb stomped.
I can’t kiss you goodnight Or hug you the way I want to, Instead I have to plant A platonic kiss to your cheek, Or give you the straight man’s embrace, And act like strangers, when we’re not. I can’t kiss you goodnight Or say I love you the way I mean it, Because it’s late Because those men are staring Because my neighbors can see Because we might get caught, Or worse Or worse, we could end up like Matthew or Rashawn, dead somewhere.
Listen babe, I mean it when I say Call me, text me, when you get home Because my mind disturbs me with images Of men beating you after we said goodnight And if you died, it would have been my fault.
So goodnight love, I want to kiss you on the lips, Hug you so tight that our hearts Beat with one another, But I can’t love you, Not here, Not in this neighborhood.
About the Poet Roberto C. Chavez (“Berto”) is an educator and a poet with a background in history, theatre, and social justice. He is a New York City native and identifies as Ecuadorian American, as his parents emigrated from Ecuador. Roberto has worked as an educator at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum and the New York Transit Museum, and as a docent at St. Paul’s Chapel. He has a deep commitment to feminism and to the LGBTQA community as an openly gay male.