2018
AZAHARES Spanish Language Literary Magazine
10
DĂŠcimo Aniversario Azahares 2018
1
Mosaico Morisco NĂşmero 3 por John Chavers
2
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
AZAHARES
2018 — 10th Anniversary Edition MANAGING EDITOR Dr. Mary A. Sobhani EDITORIAL BOARD
Azahares is the award-winning Spanish-language creative literary magazine from the University of Arkansas - Fort Smith. Founded in 2008, the primary purpose of this magazine is to provide an arena for creative expression in the Spanish language, as well as a literary space for writing that presents the themes of the Latino experience.
Dr. Ana María Romo Blas
The azahar, or orange blossom, is a flower of special meaning. Rep-
Dr. Francesco Tarelli
resentative of new life and purity, azahares form part of the iconic
Dr. Rosario Nolasco-Schultheiss
tradition of the Spanish-speaking world, embodying a freshness of
Madeline Martínez
spirit and perspective captured with this publication. Submissions are open to all members of the community.
SUPERVISING DESIGNER Katie Harper
Special thanks to: Dr. Paul B. Beran, chancellor; Dr. Georgia M. Hale, provost and vice chancellor for academic affairs; Dr. Paul Hankins, Dean of the College of Communication, Languages, Arts & Social Sci-
LEAD DESIGNERS
ences; and Dr. Paulette Meikle, Associate Dean of the College of Com-
Brooklin Easley
munication, Languages, Arts & Social Sciences.
Julio Gonzales Mary Moore COVER ILLUSTRATOR
The views and opinions expressed herein do not necessarily represent those of The University of Arkansas ‑ Fort Smith or The Azahares Editorial Board.
Claudia Lackie DESIGN TEAM MEMBERS Kacy Fernau Cassandra Lopeman Heli Mistry Jimmy Nguyen Kari Palmer Kim Phan Karina Phetdaoheuang Katelyn Smith Anna Thammovongsa
This project is supported in part by a grant from the Arkansas Humanities Council and the National Endowment for the Humanities.
ÍNDICE DE OBRAS MOSAICO MORISCO NÚMERO 3
LA PUERTA DE HIERRO
John Chavers.................................................portada interior
Lupita Eyde-Tucker.............................................................. 23
GUANCHE EN POSICIÓN DE RESISTENCIA.
BRIGHTON BEACH
CANDELARIA, SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE,
Elidio La Torre....................................................................... 24
ISLAS CANARIAS ESPAÑA, Iker Sedeño............................................................................ 4
PLAYA LARGA, VILANOVA I LA GELTRÚ, BARCELONA - ESPAÑA
ELISEO
Chris Arianne Vallejo Villegas.............................................. 25
Michelle Flores....................................................................... 5 TE VI SUGARLOAF KEY
Verónica Lourdes................................................................. 26
Michelle Flores....................................................................... 6 CICATRICES DIG
Liliana Holguín..................................................................... 27
Robert Paul Moreira............................................................... 7 INSTRUCCIONES PARA USAR EL MÓVIL LA MECEDORA
Alla Démina.......................................................................... 28
Iván Iglesias.......................................................................... 14 SPEAKING IN SPANGLISH MOSAICO MORISCO NÚMERO 1
L. Vocem............................................................................... 29
John Chavers....................................................................... 15 EL MOLCAJETE FROM COSMOGENOUS
Edward Ibarra....................................................................... 31
Michelle Mitchell-Foust....................................................... 16 LABIOS DEL SUR MONASTERIO DE SAN LORENZO DE EL ESCORIAL,
Verónica Lourdes................................................................. 32
MADRID, ESPAÑA Chris Arianne Vallejo Villegas.............................................. 19
PANAMERICANA NORTE Lupita Eyde-Tucker.............................................................. 33
GRITO MECHICANO Misael de la Rosa................................................................. 20
PASEO SOLITARIO Elidio La Torre....................................................................... 34
COLECTANDO POLEN A FALDAS DEL TEIDE. PARQUE NACIONAL DEL TEIDE, TENERIFE,
NORMAN IS GRUMPY
ISLAS CANARIAS—ESPAÑA
Anthony Alas........................................................................ 35
Iker Sedeño.......................................................................... 22
GATEWAY
TÚ
SaraShiva Spitzer................................................................ 39
Jordan Pomeroy.................................................................. 46
SI NO ESTÁS AQUÍ
FUENTES MÁGICAS DE MONTJUÏC,
Verónica Lourdes................................................................. 40
BARCELONA, ESPAÑA Chris Arianne Vallejo Villegas.............................................. 47
MIS MANOS Aimee M. Esparza................................................................ 41
LISTA DE CONTRIBUIDORES.............................................. 48
RAN KAN KAN
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS................................................... 50
Alex Lobera.......................................................................... 42 ENGAGE IN CULTURE: FLOWER
About the World Languages Department
SaraShiva Spitzer................................................................ 43
at the University of Arkansas - Fort Smith........................ 51
MY ABUELA WAS A SEAMSTRESS
EN EL SOL
Michelle Flores..................................................................... 44
Louis Martínez Soltero........................................................ 52
UN MOMENTO
MOSAICO MORISCO NÚMERO 2
Richard DiPietra................................................................... 45
John Chavers............................................contratapa interior
Guanche en posición de resistencia. Candelaria, Santa Cruz de Tenerife, Islas Canarias, España por Iker Sedeño
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
ELISEO por Michelle Flores
Abuela Tata
(clad in a bata de casa)
and chancletas)
opens the door and unlocks
“La Poesía. Quiero ser Poeta.” His eyes turn from the TV. His hand turns the volume down to a low murmur.
the gate. “Michelle,” he began, “Cuando era joven, Clay roof tiles,
después de un partido de béisbol,
iba al bar y cantaba Punto Guajiro.
Parecía un desastre,
sudado con mi uniforme todavía encendido,
pero cantaba y la gente aplaudía.
Leíamos Martí y bebíamos cerveza hasta
ue llegaba la hora de irme a casa.”
the width of an old man’s thigh,
match the orange brick-like tiles leading to the front door. “¿Qué tal, mi niñita?” “¿Qué tal, Abuelita?” I kiss her on the cheek. Papi follows
Papi rolls his eyes, hiding a smile with his
in the narrow hallway
shrugging shoulders.
towards the common area. “¿En serio, Abuelito?” I ask.
Abuelo Eliseo sits in his carved wooden rocking chair,
He smiles,
the wicker backing fraying.
He watches a baseball game on TV—
as though in pain.
“Chinita,” he says. “No envejezcas.”
sound off,
with the radio tuned to the Spanish station. He doesn’t notice me ’til I kiss his cheek.
“¿Qué estudias?” Abuelo asks.
Azahares 2018
5
SUGARLOAF KEY by Michelle Flores For the first time in a long time, I can see the stars. Hell, I can see the Milky Way— the sky is finally more than a haze of street lamps. Papi’s putting away the fishing poles while Mom and Nicky play a card game of ten phases. I can never remember the rules. I hear the ocean. It drifts in and out. I want to dive in the dark water. I want to search for jellyfish and mermaids. I want to find Atlantis and see what all the fuss is about. “Chelly,” Papi calls. “Ven aquí. Hold me this.” He passes me a plate of steaks for the grill. Sirens beckon me towards the water, but we have to eat. Our tent shakes in a gust of wind. “Dame el plato.” He takes the plate from my hands and I set the table. The sirens give up, moving further south, perhaps to Key West or to Cuba. “Gorda?” Mom calls me out of my thoughts. “Let’s eat.” She hangs the lantern over the picnic table. The sky is just a grey haze again.
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
DIG by Robert Paul Moreira At Kamayakli the tunnel resembles a parched throat to Ju-
surface of the earth, Julio included, just for the chance to
lio. It gapes long and deep before the front of the group
hear more.
••
in the lantern light. He palms the cool, carved limestone pressing round him to escape the thought of being swal-
This; here. See, Julio?
lowed. But it’s no use; there it is: Temo, all those years ago,
Where, Lara? There?
and the pulp he resembled when they finally pulled him
Doesn’t hurt, though.
out of the canal. Ever since then Julio’s father had made
It’s big; right there. Right?
it the Cortázar custom each time his son wandered off to
Ah! But don’t! Don’t squeeze it.
say I don’t want to have to dig you out, too, and as a boy
Okay; I won’t. I promise; I won’t.
he’d done his best to obey. The walkway narrows. The sides
••
scrape the tips of his elbows and steal him from his mem-
Since Tenochtitlan, Julio’s father instructs him from the
ories.
edge, but as a boy he decides to shrug his shoulders. He
A sharp elbow digs into his chest. Keep up, Julio. We’re
doesn’t care. Not this early in the morning. Not in this
almost there. Lara’s words bounce off the stone and back
stench. Not on this day of all days! He pinches his nose
to where he staggers. He smiles in the dark knowing he
with one set of fingers and with the other picks the crusty
trusts her.
stuff from the sides of his eyes. The sun pokes through a
The light widens; the air changes. Julio notices a pair
thin slit between a pair of skyscrapers and blurs across
of pudgy tourists coming into the light: a camera-strapped
the dark sewer water still sleeping in the long row of num-
Frodo and Sam, he imagines playfully, joining him in this
bered pools.
descent into Moria. They mumble hurriedly at each other in a language he doesn’t understand. He laughs to him-
Paunchy in his thick diving suit, Julio compares his father to an astronaut.
self while Lara muffles her own amusement in front of him.
Nezahualcóyotl, Julio, the great poet and emperor of
The rest of the group settles into their spines and shadows
Tezcoco, he helped construct them, and the Mexica used
in the dancing pool of kerosene light. …Doctor Lara Cortázar, the tour guide calls out. And Julio watches his wife slice through the crowd
these sewers before Cortés arrived to pump the filth out, just like we do today. It’s when things get stuck down there that I have to go in and clear it all out.
and out under a wide and heavy archway. She begins in
Julio’s young stomach grumbles, and he remembers
that raspy tone he loves and admires and everyone listens
the chorizo sandwich his father had prepared for him back
intently, even Frodo and Sam beside him. He half-smiles
home, and the vow he’d secretly made not to take one bite
again as his wife goes on about the one central, cavernous
from it, just to show his father who was boss.
well, and then the wide silos ten stories down, then the ancient stable they are standing in which she helped ex-
Eh, mi topo? What do you think? Or are you still mad at me for getting you up so early?
cavate, and, finally, how the entire complex served as an
Julio hates his nickname, but he endures it, like his hun-
ancient stronghold against Arab invaders. Julio imagines
ger. Don Tacho arrives, his father’s friend and co-worker,
that this is what Lara is saying, anyways, for her Turkish is
carrying a heavy helmet before of him, fastened to a pair
as foreign to him as hard sunlight where he stands.
of flaccid cables.
Shh, she demands, and like everyone else, Julio captures the music of trickling water, somewhere.
And now, time to go to work, mi topo. Happy birthday. The loud thrum from the oxygen compressor startles
She resumes. Her words, her presence, they are omi-
Julio. Before he can finally give in and confess his hunger
nous in that creviced light. Shadows slowly shift. The con-
to his father Don Tacho locks the helmet into place, and the
gregation bobs collective heads at everything Lara says.
boy watches his father tow the cables with him to the edge
As if they’d all gladly calcify hundreds of feet below the
of the second pool, leap in feet first, and sink straight down.
Azahares 2018
7
Julio’s stomach churns. On the concrete the cables palpi-
Julio is brooding over the notes for his lecture on the sac-
tate like exposed veins.
rificial practices depicted in the Codex Magliabechiano,
••
waiting for the words and images to synapse into solid
I am sad, I grieve
thoughts within his throbbing skull, when a crisp page slic-
I, lord Nezahualcóyotl.
es his thumb. He does not flinch. He holds up his finger to
With flowers and with songs
watch the red gather into a heavy glob that clings to his
I remember the princes
skin like a tiny, stubborn heart, unsure of when or where
Those who went away…
to fall.
•• Temo stuffs the squib in the hole, lights it, nearly trips on the train track backing away. It sizzles there like a frying plantain until POP!, forcing Julio to wince. He opens his young eyes to tiny bits of cindered newspaper fluttering down on dust as Temo lets out another celebratory guffaw, returns to the same spot, punches his fist into his right pocket for a second palomita, and uses his incisors to pull out the fuse a bit more. He bends down to give it flame, backs up next to Julio again.
A soft tap sounds on the office door. “Julio? Are you in there? It’s me. It’s Eva.” He hides his hand beneath his desk as the door slowly opens. “Oh. You are here. Hi. I…I just heard. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” He does not look at her. He gives her the same, tired response he’s given everyone else. “I’m so sorry,” she says again, and he can tell by her tone that she is.
POP!!
She closes the door, moves closer to his desk. She tells
¡Eso!, Temo celebrates.
him, if he wants her to, she can come over tonight, just to
In the summer heat the smell of gun powder nauseates
talk, of course, nothing else, but he doesn’t know how to
Julio more than usual. He spots a cacique darting fast across the sky and into the arbor of a wide guamuchil nearby. Further on, deep in the east, he can see Popocatépetl and Iztac‑ cíhuatl in tall sleep, their peaks tipped with spongy snow.
answer her. “All right. Okay,” she says, and she is gone. He sits there, wondering what the blood on his thumb has decided to do.
••
Vámonos, he finally says, fighting back the taste of
With hands handcuffed behind her the first of the Indian
sweat from his upper lip. Just one more, Julio. To get them out.
girls winks. Papasito, another one says, her mouth pucker-
We can do them by the canal, Temo. I told you: if my
ing between high cheekbones, blowing out a kiss. A third
father sees me, I won’t be able to go. Uno mas, Julio. Just to get them out. Then we go.
spreads her knees and rolls her hips slow. Julio takes the last deep drag from his cigarette, flicks
Temo pulls a new squib out, a fat one, makes for the hole
the butt on the asphalt, tugs at the neck on his heavy vest.
again. Frustrated, Julio leans in and curves a sandaled foot
The humid air delivers the gas fumes from the long lines of
onto one of the old abandoned train trazzcks. He looks be-
semis and SUVs trailing from the checkpoint booths. Next
hind him down the lazy street busy with a lone fruit vendor,
to the women the off-duty dogs lie motionless in their cag-
seated on a stool by his cart and swatting flies.
es, each turned flaccid, furry lumps by the South Texas heat.
POP!!! Hah! What I tell you, cabrón? Eh, Julio?
Looking good, Professor! ¡Chingón! You ready? Shit, man. Still can’t believe you showed, Cousin.
Look at them! Look! The dust and newspaper particles begin to settle, and Ju-
Pedro’s voice is loud; his handshake, hot leather. His Oak-
lio can finally see the exiting horde. They crawl out of their
leys reflect Julio,
hole in all directions and up and over one another, the fire
but stretched.
ants, the same way he and Temo and the other boys spill
Had to get out, Julio responds.
out of the classroom each day, fondling any girls they can
I hear you, man. How is Lara these days? Better,
along the way. He jumps on the train track so the ants don’t
I hope? The women blow high-pitched air through their teeth to
get at his toes. And they’re mad as fuck, Julio. Ahora si—¡Vámonos!
get Julio’s attention. They lick their chapped lips. The oldest
And they leap in tip toes, laughing, as they bound past
and pudgiest punches her tongue into her cheek, over and
the guamuchil leading to path down to the canal.
••
8
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
over. Something, eh? Pedro says. They do that, Primo. The
coyotes tell them to. So we’ll let them go. But it’s bad news
sore throat. Just in case, she’d said, squeezing his hand,
for these. Watch. ‘Muchachas, and Pedro uses his Tex-Mex
and he’d agreed. He’d purchased the tickets right after she’d
Spanish to explain to the women that Julio doesn’t’ matter.
fallen asleep again, fumbling through the credit card num-
That he’s insignificant. Not a real agent, even. A waste of
bers with the agent on the phone due to a nagging tremble
their breaths and lures and hips.
in his lower jaw, until he finally got the digits out right.
The women hang their conquered heads. Hah, Pedro celebrates. Works every time. We’re out in a bit, Primo. Hang tight. They won’t bother you no more.
No!, he repeats, forcefully this time, so that the yarmulked man stops pointing at Julio’s rental, stops insisting in a language Julio doesn’t understand, and continues
Cool air snares Pedro through the station doors.
on his way. The taxi drivers snicker and enjoy the justice
And Julio quickly realizes the women have forgotten all
done. Julio finally finds Lara in the distance. Sticking the
about him, won’t look at him, won’t hope for him anymore.
last of his cigarette in the Coke bottle, he sees his wife at
He feels the depth of his betrayal like the thumps from his
the foot of the eastern part of the Wall. He watches her fold
heart beneath the sweat on his skin. The women break into
her piece of paper once, twice, three times, and stuff it into
a powerful song in their native tongue, forcing the dogs
a crevice between two massive stones.
from their siestas, but too lazy still to curve up into their spines and dance.
Then a voice descends from the sky in wonderful trills, a voice that Julio doesn’t comprehend but that compels
••
him, drowning in its power the roar of the traffic behind
The doorbell rings louder than usual. Julio rises from his
him. Lara is immovable in the distance. The Coke vendor
recliner and staggers to the front door. He peeps through
reappears. He shrugs off a group of thirsty tourists, then
the hole to catch a glimpse. What do you see?, he imag-
falls to his knees to pray.
ines someone asking him from behind, just as they’d asked Howard Carter at the foot of Tutankhamen’s tomb. Wonderful things, Carter had answered back.
•• and as the crane comes down on this day of all days Julio pretends his father is landing with life on the earth for the first
Wonderful things?
••
time and that his own young tears are
At the Wall the Jews pray. Julio can make out the rambling
due to the pangs from his hungry hun-
figures through the rental’s bug-battered battlefield of a
ger and not his fathers descent onto the
windshield. Hundreds of the faithful shifting and gathering
world where Julio now watches him drip
all along the base of the ancient stone structure like a long
down drip down drip down down
strip of black obsidian, bobbing their heads and torsos. He
••
scales the height of the Wall with his heavy eyes, up to
…zan nihualayocoya, nicnotlamati.
where the Jerusalem sky unfurls. To where the sun bris-
ayoquic, ayoc,
tles wide on Mohammed’s golden dome. To where the lean
quenmanian,
minaret in the distance spears into nothing but an expanse of blue behind. He parks behind a row of minivan taxis hugging the
titechyaitaquiuh in tlalticpac yca, nontiya, yehua, ohuaya, ohuaya…
••
curb, and just like that, Lara is gone. He doesn’t try to stop
“Hi,” but Eva says this timidly at the door, without lifting
her. He climbs out of the rental car instead, leans against
her eyes, unsure almost, as if preparing to hear something
the Enterprise logo, lights a Marlboro, and watches as Lara
harsh before being sent away. But Julio doesn’t do that.
cuts through the crowd and disappears. He buys a Coke
He moves to the side and lets her in. He studies Eva’s care-
from a passing vendor and takes a long swig while a group
ful amble to the love seat where she drops her lump of a
of olive-skinned drivers ogle him suspiciously. They erupt
purse, and just like that it begins. She is apologizing again,
into broken English all around him, offering their cabs to
offering her condolences again, while the diamonded, dec-
all passersby they take for Americans.
orative skull on the side of her purse glowers at him, so
That morning back home. Julio remembers waking up
that he has no choice but to give in. So that he’s thrust back
to relieve himself, only to find Lara curled around the toilet
into those pits in Peru with Lara all over again, where once
once more, the water in the white porcelain turned a pink
the hard dirt sprouted nothing but tiny skulls.
mess. He remembers cleaning her, helping her back to bed,
••
and calling in to cancel both of their classes for the next
Fresh ones, Primo! Hah! Not like you’re used to, eh, Julio?
couple of days. Then the idea that surfaced from her own
Cut at the wrists and stacked one over the other, the hands
Azahares 2018
9
lie at the tunnel’s entrance; a man’s hands with girthy fingers.
help but imagine the scent of sweet copal pluming from a saucerful of beating hearts. His own organ beats fast. Fast
Pedro chuckles and pokes a playful elbow into the back
enough to make him hard.
of Julio’s bulletproof vest, assuring him he is not dreaming.
Who…what is this, Lara asks, mesmerized.
The gun-drawn agents hurry past Julio, climbing one after
He presses into her, forcing a blush. He clears his throat
the other into the hole in the broken concrete, until their
and his head and explains that the scattered limbs and tor-
clatter leaves the echoes of the warehouse
so depicted on the massive stone relief belong to Coyolx‑
to themselves.
auhqui, the Mexica Moon goddess, dismembered by her
You picked a hell of a day for your ride-a-long, Julio, tell you that much. We don’t see this setup that often. The hands, I mean. This is special, Primo. Ceremonial, even. Right up your alley, Cousin. Watch. And Julio can’t stop his hands, his jaw from trem-
brother the War God for rebelling against him. She bites his shoulder. Julio, Lara whispers, you will never vanquish me.
•• …we’re to pass away. I say, “Be pleasured!”—
bling. Somewhere in the expanse of the warehouse, the
I that am Nezahualcóyotl.
dogs bark and echo in frenzy, while all around him the tall
Ah, do we truly live on earth…
stacks of cellophaned boxes marked “EE.UU.” seem ready
••
to crash down on him like some ancient, collapsing porti-
The seed pods are on tight and chafe loud around Julio’s
co, determined to bury him where he stands. He thinks of
young knees and forearms as he cuts through the thick
Lara at that instant. Of Eva. The women at the station, too.
crowd with his father in the lead. The kaleidoscope feath-
Their veiled, majestic verses fading as the bus took them
ers from his father’s headdress rainbow out and brush
all away.
over bowed heads in slow procession towards the Basilica
Pedro answers a static voice on his two-way radio in
doors. The air reeks of gun powder, sweet chamomile from
low mumbles. He unsheathes his collapsible baton and
Xochimilco, and meats and maize fried in lard. Beyond
pries it under the bloated hands, flopping them
the tricolored flags and ceremonial banners he catches a
over slowly.
glimpse of the long row of penitents, dragging their bellies across the Zócalo’s cold stone on their hands and knees.
Crazy things, he says. Beneath the congealed red there is a photograph of a man and woman, lost in their smiles.
••
His father stops suddenly. Julio rattles to a halt behind him. The jaguar set into the back of his father’s vest is an intricate inlay made up of polished jade from Iztapalapa and
And what did the doctor say?
precious shells from Tehuantepec. Embarrassed to look up,
Nothing.
he feels the tugs on his own set of quetzal feathers. He
Nothing?
fidgets from the probing fingers starting to explore other
Just stress.
parts of his costume. Once his father is off again, Julio is
Slow down then, Lara.
relieved. Hot wax from a votive candle finds his left shoul-
I will, Julio. I promise. Now, read to me some more…
der, but he endures the pain. The evening chill crashes
•• …o ayc ompolihuiz in moteyo…
against his skin. Balms over his flesh to ease the burn. Julio! Julito! Over here! Don Tacho’s voice is powerful
anca za ye in cocuic a yca
enough to reach them above the sounds of the crowd. He
nihualchoca,
waves at them from the foot of the Old Basilica’s western
yn zan nihualicnotlamatico,
spire, his own thick plumage radiating from his head like a
nontiya, ehua, ohuaya, ohuaya…
multicolored saint’s nimbus. The old man sits back down by
••
the other musicians and dancers, lays the log drum across
He leads Lara away from the votive jade saucers he knows
his lap, and tightens the leather straps on both sides. He
so well, leads her past the clumps of tourists gawking over
tests his handiwork with a few hollow thumps. The sound
the ceremonial masks’ display, through the rope cordon-
reaches Julio and seems to delve into the nexus of noise
ing off the entrance to the small causeway flanked by the
all around him, jabbing at it, forcing it to listen.
chac-mools. He points at the wide, circular monolith en-
Today is the day, eh, Julito? Are you ready? Don Ta-
compassing the breadth of the wall as hidden speakers
cho’s calloused hands leave his drum for the sagging pods
pulse into his ears with the sounds of palmed drums. For
around Julio’s knees. These have to be on tight, Julito. The
a split second he is tugged on by time, so that he can’t
last thing you want is for these to fall off while you dance.
10
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
You’re Tlayeconqui, you’re Dance Leader, today. You need
Later that night, it’s him waiting for the tents to go out.
to shine! Shine for the Virgen, Julito!
He is heading with Lara for the edge of the excavation site
For México!
where the cool ocean breeze makes it difficult to light their
As Don Tacho tightens, Julio’s father approaches his son
cigarettes, but they manage. She is lying on his lap blow-
and hands him a wide, feathered shield and a sword stud-
ing rings while he recites his favorite of Nezahualcóyotl’s
ded with blunted chips of obsidian.
poems again, and he is laughing as she tries to pronounce
Your chimalli. Your macquahuitl. You’ll be fine, mi topo. Just like we practiced. Let’s go. It’s time. And Julio watches as the other dancers rise to take their
the more complicated words. She punches him on his shoulder playfully. He leans forward to warm his lips on hers.
places. His knees tremble, rattle all the way up to the front
Thanks, he says.
of the square. He focuses on his breathing, just as his fa-
For?
ther told him to do to beat off any nerves. He notices the
Not mentioning it.
red-green-white streamers and the confetti in flight, flut-
Oops, Lara says.
tering down slowly, only to get trampled. A man, woman,
He hears them singing at the top of their lungs first be-
and child pick their spot, nonchalant in their matching Paul
fore turning to see a wide shadow coming straight towards
VI t-shirts. From nearby Puebla, Julio surmises, a group
him. A giggling mass shuffling clumsily through the sand,
of Chichimeca women huddle over their children in their
guarding a single flicker of light at its center.
traditional china poblana outfits, each wrapped in their bobbled shawls, their wide castor skirts hovering over wet
Happy twenty-fifth, Lara is saying, pressing her lips to his cold cheek.
brown feet in leather huaraches. And above all are the ban-
And he is hating that he wants her.
ners of the Indian, Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin, with the
And they are pounding his shoulders and squeezing his
image of Guadalupe, the Mother of God, of México, seared
ass and handing him Pilsen beers that will freeze in his fist
into the threads of his mantle.
if he nurses them too long, so he chugs them down fast.
He hears the drums. He begins.
He tells them he doesn’t like frosting, so they eat the cake
••
themselves. The lights from Trujillo begin to pulse from far
and Don Tacho won't let him grabs him
away. They urge him to close his eyes for his present. He
blocks him from the torn mass of vulca-
does. And it’s Julio in his own dark, spinning, picking out
nized rubber on the concrete edge that is
Lara’s laugh from among all the rest.
the still torso of his father as the workers
••
scramble and the shrill sirens puncture
Julio brings his book and Lara’s ankh amulet, the one he
this day of all days this day of all days
once purchased for her at the foot of Khufu’s pyramid that
this day of all days
summer day, where the old Bedouin leaned across the ta-
••
ble and claimed to have let the newlywed Crowleys into
And it’s Julio as careful as always, still sitting Indian-style
the King’s Chamber in 1904. Julio had wanted to hear the
in his assigned spot and relying on his steady wrist to
whole story, of course—about Alistair and Rose, grimoires,
brush over that nub of hard earth, careful not to damage
and black rituals—but the old Bedouin would say no more.
the treasures below. But every now and then when no one
So Julio had picked the amulet out from all the other trin-
is looking it’s him giving in to the urge and flicking a little
kets on the table, brushed the sand and thick auburn hair
harder, so that the grains can reach the skin on the back
from Lara’s strong shoulders, and clasped the chain at the
of Lara’s young hand. Sorry, he finally says, not meaning
base of the back of her neck.
it, of course, looking straight at her, watching her stick out
Julio? Is that you?
her tongue and a dusty middle finger. He’s answering back
But now.
with a wink as the sounds of the pounding mattocks come
Yes, Lara. It’s me.
muffled just over the surrounding dunes.
He bends over her, kisses her cold forehead. She offers
That evening it’s him even more wary. He’s eating din-
a frail smile. She motions feebly with her right hand, and
ner with the other exchange students but speaking sparse-
Julio understands. He carefully lifts her hairless head and
ly, only qualifying statements here and there so as not to
brings the chips of ice to her lips to quench her thirst. He
stand out. No one mentions anything, and he is glad, just
listens to her molars, muffled beneath the pruney flesh of
as Lara gropes his thigh beneath the table and forks anoth-
her lips, crunching on ice. On the nightstand next to her
er piece of pork from the estofado on her plate.
the petunias spill their petals over the get-well cards.
Azahares 2018
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And work? Do they miss me much, Julio?
and the sounds are of rain going up then
They do.
down and in and out and to the side and
Has Eva finished indexing my notes?
Julio's plumage wisping through the cool
I haven’t had the chance to ask.
air on one foot turning on the other the
He flicks off the television, sits in the chair beside her
same the other way the cold stone slap-
bed. He opens his book to his favorite of Netzahualcóyotl’s
ping his soles like the eyes around him
poems.
shield up then down sword thrust bring
I’ll try not to fall asleep this time, Julio, I promise. Not
it back its a dance a dance that he knows
like last night. I’ll try. Real hard this time.
because his father taught him the steps
He believes her. His hands quake softly beneath the
over and over like the mexica the aztecs
book’s spine. As if on impulse, he starts with the English
like they danced before the tzompantli
translation this time.
the skull rack where the captured warriors
••
lost precious ventricled organs he is care-
…not forever on earth, but briefly here.
ful as if dancing between rain drops com-
Even jades are shattered.
fortable with his body his limbs lost in the
Gold, broken.
chilly night he decides to close his eyes
Ah! Plumes, splintered.
his next step is confident but the ground
Not forever on earth, but briefly here…
is not he brings his knees up to his chest
••
stabs into the air his soles descend like
And it’s the mattocks in Julio’s head now, trying to pick
falcons in the dive and wedge between
their way out, and his body—heavy, thirsty, stretched. He
the manhole cover and the rims outside
is washing the sand from his face and hair as best as pos-
edge don tacho loses his rhythm a col-
sible, hardly remembering the previous night, struggling
lective gasp he feels the warm breaths
into his overalls, unsure of the time of day except for the
before him behind him as he plummets
bright parallelogram at the foot of his tent’s entrance. He
in in feathered glory he pretends it's not
is listening to the shuffle of hurried feet and excitedvoices
him but the world that is falling away un-
outside as he reaches for his sun hat before
til after the crack of his bones he endures
heading out.
the pain and suffers the voices above him
Bodies are blurring past him, scurrying towards the
mi topo where are you Julito are you all
main mound where the locals are resting their chins on
right but he won’t answer not yet not yet
pickaxes and peering down into the excavation area that
not yet
Julio knows so well. Amidst the din he can hear the ocean,
••
the morning swells as eager as ever to carry off a little
Julio quits reading. He focuses instead on the thin chain
more sand.
trailing down Lara’s arm, the amulet cupped in fragile
And it’s him scampering down the well-worn path to
hands crossed solemnly on her chest.
the start of the cordoned grid, ignoring the taste of alcohol
She sleeps.
rising from the back of his throat, spitting it all out. And
He closes his book. Before pulling the blanket up to
he is finding Lara on her knees in his usual spot, with the
Lara’s chin, he surrenders to the geography of her bones:
main archaeologist hovering over her shoulder anxiously,
toes to wasting knees to wan neck. His glance falls on the
urging a giddy Lara to brush ever so gently over the row
valley of Lara’s face, her cheekbones jutting out at him like
of child-sized skulls.
two pallid Hissarlik temples, crumbling in a slow-motion
•• “And…how was Lara, Julio?”
storm. And Julio realizes he is no warlock about to exercise
“What?”
great power. No hawk-headed Horus or “Beast 666.” No
“As good; better?”
Aztec god and vengeful brother. That all he can do is be
“What does that matter?”
present. Exist as she fades.
“I’m sorry; forget I asked.”
and as he dresses to race home julio is
“The things you say.” “Just come; here.”
12
••
••
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
jealous so jealous of temos somersaults from the concrete edge and of the way
the water delivers his friend each time and drips from the hair and heavy flesh between his legs so that Julio endures the sear of his young soles on the hot concrete on purpose and watches one final time as Temo jumps gloriously up and out of the memory and into the sun and water again •• And they finally rouse him. The buried ones. With drums. Julio sees them, forming and gathering into their bodies, their essences curling out from his memories like sacred plumes from saucered incense. Clawing their way up to him from under some ancient, gargantuan stone. He rustles from under her arm, out of bed, and rushes out the bedroom door. “Julio, wait. Wh-where are you going?” He knows the hole he digs will be bottomless.
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LA MECEDORA por Iván Iglesias Regresa el vaivén de la vida Con su ritmo contradictorio Marcando espacialmente el territorio De Aquella que se fue sin despedida. Regresa dibujando el compás Con sus piernas fuertes y arqueadas Calcando en el suelo las miradas De Aquella que no pudo amarme más. Regresa desnuda y quejumbrosa Con sus brazos extendidos Extrañando los vestidos De Aquella que siempre lució hermosa. Regresa para recuperar su lugar Con su leal ventana por compañera Pintando los recuerdos por doquiera De Aquella que su amor supo entregar. Regresa para quedarse latente Con su estática figura de hierro Rompiendo con las barras del encierro De Aquella que hoy por hoy reina en mi mente.
14
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Mosaico Morisco NĂşmero 1 por John Chavers
Azahares 2018
15
FROM COSMOGENOUS by Michelle Mitchell-Foust What worry is. What
In Juanita’s dream she still suckles.
haunting for what resonates.
Put a red point here
Love notes folded on all fours and crossed
on a mother’s best threat,
and tucked into fat white triangles with someone’s name, Cream toast, the ghost procession
Bermuda triangles,
dogs the progressive incarnations of a lot and the other triangles you disappear in, their vertices at home, school, the most haunted place
of strawberry field, Indian burial ground,
learned from the hissed language of their inhabitants.
diner with gang fight, and house,
Santa Ana, the reverse heartbeat of a name. and house, and house, the seedy of narcocorridos Put a green point where you live.
singing narco santo ballads that suck and poultice,
Put a blue point at this school.
inaudible in their familiarity, busy at the mouth of a grave.
Put a red point there
Put a red point there:
at the corner of Euclid and Hazard.
See how close you are
to the most haunted place,
where the house on Hazard is empty ever since
its first family’s car crash.
where you can archive their incorporeal to know them.
Staunch your la Lloronas with Gabriela’s father’s broken windows, where the ghost
See how close all the obvious
reached in and grabbed him out by the feet,
animals are too small to be making this sound. First a bull.
and Israel’s grandfather killed himself.
The bullfighter Caliman, Juan’s cousin
His ghost smells like grass,
gored by El Diablo during his first televised fight. The bull is ghost, too,
grass smell being grass screaming.
and the brother Cesar recognized by his bed because of the jeans on his dead brother,
Bisect each angle of the triangle.
and the ghost Eduardo’s aunt Juanita was in Mexico, devil-sought
Find where the bisectors intersect. The incenter.
when her mother walked along, holding her,
The center of the triangle’s inscribed circle.
and a stranger offered her a bottle. Oh, no, this baby’s dead, said she,
where Arlene’s parents were married, home of the oldest celebration in a city whose doppelganger is its homeland:
turning with her bundle. Just try, the stranger said, holding the bottle to the baby’s mouth.
16
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Santa Ana as the most potent example in California
of the old country, when so many in the towns here have lost the taste of it in their mouths.
Put a blue point at this school
where the ghosts of Elvis Jacobo and Adam Lopez come back to the basketball courts after Adam is shot and Elvis’s motorcycle crashes in a police chase: the security guard’s ghost story, the small monster of the dregs of his green drink swishing at the bottom of his water bottle. Bisect each of three sides.
Find the intersection of the bisectors,
the circumcenter
where the Virgin’s ceremony is too año del caldo
in cities that are amusement parks.
See how the area changes when the
dimensions change the folk-saint Malverde’s ghost changing in Mexico to suit each asker at the blue shrine. Smugglers beg Malverde for mercy with the stones they leave in Sinaloa, with pistols they left en los viejos tiempos: thank you for lighting the way from Sinaloa to California. The people serenade the Malverde of the people, the Robin Hood: thank you for not having to lose my arm and leg, thank you for my good catch. They leave their stones, their baggies of hair, their enormous shrimp suspended in large jars of formaldehyde. They leave artificial limbs, corn cobs, cardboard warping under the weight of pasted plastic flowers, and out-of-focus Polaroids of men in cowboy hats. Thank you, the police say, for your face under glass when they find Malverde on a windshield, or tattooed on a forearm, or surrounded by dead candles at a door, shrine as tip-off, his actual shrine sequestered by glass in Sinaloa inside Marco Osuna’s consignment car lot near the Malverde Clutch & Breaks and Malverde Lumber: iron cross and a bust of Malverde encased in a rusty bird cage amongst the Monte Carlos and dented Nisson pick-ups. Add Malverde’s ghost on horseback.
Azahares 2018
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What’s cold still belongs to us. Know that the first ghost you see has your face at first. I dreamed the music and its instrument playing by itself Learn what fear is not.
even after the vibration of its own playing tipped it
Learn what to fear.
off the table,
and the little girl who pointed to its three teeth bending back
Don’t go missing there, one at a time as it played. Add my hysteria.
but some kids go to the most haunted place, say
Add my hand making the sign of the air.
there’s a flag in its hitch, and some flowers, and Amy says
Add that I was a ghost in a past life, searching for my
a white truck is around there, but the house doesn’t look
live children,
decorated by people.
so this archive is pre-emptive
Imagine being so heavy, you take your glasses off
Keep your ghosts closer .
We are trying to get home. Fog over a lily field—of haints, we leave our breath behind.
you take your head off heart out before bed.
Add my hand’s shadow on the child’s face as she walks toward me,
Imagine being light as a feather.
one part triangle, as if she is missing from somewhere.
18
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Monasterio de San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Madrid, EspaĂąa por Chris Arianne Vallejo Villegas
Azahares 2018
19
GRITO MECHICANO por Misael de la Rosa Soy,
Soy pavorreal con tus dagas,
Lo que me robaron, los cuentos Mexicanos
Mi trofeo en donde pertenecen
Arropados en tortillas, recitados a la orilla
Mi cola.
De mi mente dividida.
Te agradezco las alas que me has regalado El premio de mi resistencia.
Soy el inglés quebrado de mi familia
Me prendes como volcán
El día del pavo
¡Extra! ¡Extra! El Popocatépetl ha
Aunque en mi tierra es cualquier otro día.
Despertado! Sereno moreno que mi mente es una nube
Soy el cielito lindo en el Azteca
Adornando la albiceleste atmósfera
Llenando al pueblo de alegría
Que he alcanzado gracias a las
El ay, ay, ay, ay
ALAS que me has dado.
Que he sofocado después de tus mordidas.
Así que vuelo alto ¡Alto!
Soy el Río
Considérame amigo:
Bravo
Un Dragón Chino
Cuando haces caer el torrencial de tu injusticia
Dragón Tolkientino
En mis jardines de bugambilias.
Dragón Mexicano Dragon-Fly
Águila Calva a picotazos me has herido
Sobre mi capullo de monarca en Lacandona
Arrancando de mi carne mis cuerdas vocales
Esperando el tercer día.
Pero en tu obsesión por atacarme
No le temo a la muerte
Haz perdido tu plumaje.
Es mi amiga Su lista robé
Transgresor, no te das cuenta
Para escribir tu réquiem
Que a mi Azteca has sacado.
Encargado por mi pueblo que en un desierto se quedó, El Macondo Mexicano de los Juárez
Hoy
Pues lo llevamos en las venas como estirpe Sentenciada a un Huracán Americano.
Soy criatura híbrida
Ten orgullo tatarabuelo del Chicano,
Quetzalcóatl criado entre Águilas,
En el aguante nos hemos criado.
Calvas por la bruma de tu discriminación, Y Ofendes cuando tu ignorancia
Somos las promesas vacías de los gobernantes
Ataca con esas plumas que has perdido, Y
Somos la droga que vendemos para cuidar a los pobres
Lanzas como dagas cirqueras que tomo,
Acaso no te has dado cuenta, consumidor Americano,
Apropió, Y
Que cada Benjamín, de cocaína está manchado? Consumes y consumes
Hoy
Y que facilidad culparme Hace años, como brabucón, arrancaste mi voz.
Soy la serpiente emplumada por intolerancia,
No me agüito, águila calva, porque mis puercos son así
Soy la torre de Babel dominando más de un idioma
En mi granja de animales ellos son los más iguales.
Pero aguántame, pollito, que al rato eso toca.
Y por su culpa crecí en el infierno de la droga.
20
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Y por su culpa no salí más a jugar a la pelota. Y por su culpa mi mente le ganó la carrera de la madurez a mi cuerpo. Y por su culpa yo entendí la hermosura de mi tierra. Y escuché el clarín con su bélico acento. Y Escuché los gritos de la juventud iluminada. Y Caminé con Pedro Páramo. Y Bailé en el cementerio con las calaveras. Y Bebí su café en la punta del cielo. Y Saboreé tu pan dulce derretido en mi paladar. Y Te escuché. Y Te entendí. Y desde entonces a tus colores defendí. Gracias, Águila, por acercarme al calor Gracias, Águila, por cargar este cañón Gracias, Águila, por robar mi voz Gracias, ya que al ser obligado a callar y mirar a mi alrededor He aprendido mi verdadero valor. Mi sangre hierve, es de Hidalgo. Mi tinta marcha, es de King. Soy una criatura híbrida Mechicano hasta el final. Nosotros Somos todos aunque nos digan que no somos nada Somos las serpientes emplumadas por tus agresiones Y Al final Volaremos Alto, Alto como el Aguilón Y Por fin Escucharán el grito Mechicano anunciado por Nuestra VOICE
Azahares 2018
21
Colectando polen a faldas del Teide.Parque Nacional del Teide, Tenerife, Islas Canarias,España por Iker Sedeño
22
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
LA PUERTA DE HIERRO por Lupita Eyde-Tucker Salgo por la puerta de hierro y camino por la peatonal esta ciudad un laberinto de cemento, los ciudadanos ratones, cada uno buscando su quesito. Voy a la tienda con un puño de billetes de 5, 10, y 20 sucres perfiles de patriotas de antaño: Orellana, Bolivar, Rocafuerte acolitándome en mi golosería La tienda me espera, pero primero camino lo más silenciosa posible que no me escuchan los perros que no me escuchan los hombres que no caiga un silbido, o un sonido de beso, sobre mis oídos Hágame invisible O Dios déjeme pasar desapercibida y devuélvame, mi paz íntegra, mis cachetes jugosos de chicle a la casa de mi abuelita al patio, santuario de mi soledad detrás de la puerta de hierro.
Azahares 2018
23
BRIGHTON BEACH por Elidio La Torre aquello que nos hace fuertes arrecia desde la tierra sin palabras, los ladrillos helados a lo largo de la aceranuestras sombras se tropiezan como tintas que cojean por un verso ciego de luz— las hojas armonizan la elegĂa amarilla de lo que ya no decimos por no salar lo que acaba, o lo que comienza a parecerun hambre de conservar lo que perdimos- un comercio impreciso, un aplazamiento de los sentidos hasta darnos en la luz erguida en la forma que el salitre no derrumba
24
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Playa Larga, Vilanova i la GeltrĂş, Barcelona - EspaĂąa por Chris Arianne Vallejo Villegas
Azahares 2018
25
TE VI por Verónica Lourdes Te vi verso desnúdandose de mariposas madrugada última hecha hombre. Todo en la escuela se hizo eclipse, pasó la directora con su traje de cuchillos tranquilos, en la raíz de los verbos se puso a llover nubes incómodas. Nos miramos de sur a sur. Afuera oscurecía la ciudad usada por terremotos, las monjas se tiñeron el pelo de clavel eterno, del sexo de las aceras salieron los astros, no acudió nadie a ver un limpio atropello de ternura. Nos estuvimos amando tres segundos infinitos. Me presentaron tus labios, en el oleaje de tu voz me acosté, la colega me aconsejó tus vértebras como la patria de los abrazos. No buscaba más asesinatos cariñosos, conversar desnuda sobre el origen de besos otoños, un firmamento en quien navegar con mi aire de gran señora. Yo planeaba el embarazo. Te vi.
26
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
CICATRICES por Liliana Holguín Dice que es porque no tenía a nadie y Que no tenía adónde ir Que sin él, No tendríamos nada Dice que, Con sus papás no cuenta Y que Si lo deja nos vamos a quedar en la calle Dice que es su culpa y que ella lo provocó Pero lo que no sabe es que yo veo todo Que a mí también me afecta No sabe que todo lo que pasa voy a tener enterrado en mi mente
para siempre
como una cicatriz en la piel Se la pasaba llorando como un bebé recién nacido, nunca paraba su dolor no nomás físicamente pero también emocionalmente Me dolía no podía hacer nada por ella porque yo todavía era una niña chiquita,
una bebé Era mi mamá
y yo no podía hacer nada
I WAS DEFENSELESS ¿Cuándo va a acabar este sueño sin parar? Sí, sé que no lo hace por mala lo hace porque es lo único que sabe, y lo único que tiene Es mi cicatriz.
Azahares 2018
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INSTRUCCIONES PARA USAR EL MÓVIL por Alla Démina Preámbulo Concéntrate en este objeto pequeñito que está en tu bolsillo y sin el que eres sólo medio hombre o aún la tercera parte. Ahora está tranquilo, sin sonar o moverse, y eso garantiza tu tranquilidad. Olvida todo lo que nuestros padres nos han dicho, olvida que el móvil es solo para llamar y para que te llamen y que ´es malo para el oído´ — el móvil es mucho más que un gadget, un representante de las altas tecnologías — es un modo de vida, una enorme parte de tu rutina cotidiana. Es curioso, porque la generación anterior solía pasar sin él, pero ¿cómo voy a encontrarme con un amigo en la estación de metro? Y ¿cómo me despertaré por la mañana? ¡Necesito saber qué hora es! Seguramente voy a olvidar esto y esto si mi móvil no me lo hace recordar... El móvil es nuestro todo – todas las cosas combinadas en una, un tesoro de funciones imprescindibles, un objeto mágico. Si lo olvidas en casa, todo el día será el peor día de tu vida, y sentirás como cuando has olvidado tu amuleto de la suerte. Tú no posees el móvil, sino que el móvil te posee. Lo amas y cuidas, lo comparas con otros, siempre lo tienes contigo y lo eliges como solían elegir una novia hace mucho tiempo... Instrucciones Aquí lo tienes – compacto, de color naranja/rojo/argénteo/negro (el mejor color, sin falta), con los números en la pantalla, pronto a llamarte cuando alguien te necesite... entonces, ¿qué haces con éste? Es bastante complicado, por eso tienes que seguir precisamente todas las instrucciones. Primero, hace falta tomar el móvil (muy cuidadosamente, porque no quieres romper esa parte tan importante de tu vida), eligir el número y apretar el botón con el dibujo de auricular verde. Después de hacerlo, llévalo muy rápidamente a la oreja. Elije la oreja izquierda si oyes mejor con la oreja izquierda o llévalo a la derecha, si es al revés. Cuando hablas con uno, no hace falta mover el móvil de la oreja a la boca y atrás – te oyen, tranquila. Al terminar, para colgar necesitas apretar un botón con el auricular rojo y cuidadosamente poner el móvil en tu bolsillo. A pesar de cuidarlo, necesitas alimentarlo. Para hacerlo, toma el cable negro/gris/blanco que devolverá la vida y emoción a tu niño tecnológico y enchúfalo; después de unas horas verás que tu tutelado ya está alegre, bien alimentado y pronto a conectarte con el mundo circundante.
28
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
SPEAKING IN SPANGLISH by L. Vocem I didn’t realize how bad my Spanish was until I took it in
made you an untouchable person for life. But society did
school and made a C minus. My teacher, Ms. Smith had
not want to help you find a cure because to them you were
learned her Spanish in Madrid and said everything with a
a monster, the leech that was destroying the country.
lot of zetas. At home my Mami looked at me funny when
Yes, I’m an illegal alien. I said it. I’m a wetback. I cannot
I used some of the words, since she spoke, South Ameri-
remember when we came in, I was too small. After I found
can Caribbean Spanish not that lispy sounding thing they
out, I confronted Papi about it. He said that we came by bus
spoke in Spain. My teacher also corrected me when I trans-
and simply overstayed our visas. Jorge was born later on.
lated average to averáje, saying the right word was pro-
He has papeles.
medio.
I had worked so hard in school to get scholarships, and
It bothered me that my family could not speak English
I was aiming at good schools. I was shattered. My school
right: Mami took us to Gualmar, instead of Walmart, or
advisor noticed my grades going down and pulled me
when we were sick, my Mami used el vivaporu. Until one
aside. In her office I cried and told her. She reminded me
day I realized that it was really Vicks VaporRub.
that most of the Latino students in school had no papers
Now even my Spanish was not good enough.
even when they say they did. “So why don’t you report me
I already had an identity crisis; this was only making it
and them?” I asked her. She held my hand tight and said
worse. Truth be told, I just wanted to be a regular kid. But
because she was there to educate and every child had a
even more, I wanted to be one of the white kids. And the
right to an education regardless.
reality is that I’m a dark girl, with brown skin and black
When my sister graduated from high school she joined
hair. When my parents spoke to me in Spanish, I respond-
the presidential group DACA. My Papi didn’t like it. He
ed to them in English. The only one I spoke Spanish to was
argued that now they had a record of who we were, and
Nana. And I could hardly understand her.
now they knew where to get us and deport us. I told Papi,
All this time, I thought I was an American Latina, who
in solidarity with my sister that I would join too. “¡Nun-
went to an American school and lived in a blue collar bar-
ca, Maribel!” My dad said, very angry, that he didn’t work
rio that had blacks, Latinos and white people intermixed.
this hard rompiéndose la espalda, breaking his back for so
In school each group tended to gravitate to their own, but
many years, so we could piss it away just like that.
then there were the geeks. They didn’t care what color you
“We are illegals,” my sister screamed at my dad.
were, what language you spoke as long as you were a
“¿Qué quieres hija?” What do you want, he said to my
gamer, or artsy, or a little weird.
sister. “That we end up in a slum by the border, with no
My older sister when she attended school was rather
work, where multinationals dump battery chemicals in the
popular. She hung out with the athletes and even tried for
water and cartels kill, kidnap people and turn girls like you
cheerleading but she didn’t make it. Some say, she wasn’t
into putas. Carajo, ¡digo que no!”
dark enough or white enough, just cafecito. She start-
I’ve never heard my Papi talk so blunt. I wanted to sneak
ed going out with black boys from the football team and
behind his back in the next days and fill in the forms and
my Nana got really mad at her. Tenemos que blanquear
join. But I was too chicken, and I didn’t.
la raza, we have to whiten the race, she screamed at her own daughter, my mom when she found out. I didn’t get it, Nana was not exactly very light herself.
Lucia got angry at me first, but then we did a cry together and forgave each other like good hermanas do. All along, my younger brother, the one who is the citizen,
It wasn’t until I turned 15 and wanted to take driver’s ed
the gringo, he didn’t care. All he cared about was fútbol. Not
and needed my birth certificate to get a license that I real-
American football, but soccer. He dressed in Real Madrid
ized that I had the curse. I was one of them. What I dreaded
jerseys, and he liked the Vino tinto of Venezuela as his other
only happened to other people – it was actually me. I cried
color. That is where Nana and Mami were from. His Spanish
all night, hoping it would go away in the morning, but it
sucked too, but Nana had been his baby sitter growing up
did not. It was like having some disease, like HIV, which
and they talked in her super-fast Spanish all the time. Azahares 2018
29
My sister and her friends went to the State Capitol here
together with their bare hands and throw them up in the air
in Georgia to demonstrate because the universities did not
to the second floor where another guy grabbed them and
want them. People in the streets did not like them. White
threw them to the third floor to another guy who passed
supremacists came over as well with signs that said
them to a stacker. They did that all day. The gabachos
build
the wall.
didn’t last.
In the mean time I had to study for finals and the SAT so I could get in a good school.
My friend, since he was not my boyfriend yet because we only had kissed and didn’t even mess around like my
“Cuál es el punto,” What’s the point, Mami said in des-
sister told me, got accepted to Georgia Tech. He was going
peration. It really pissed me off. I thought she was sup-
to study computer science, but what he really wanted to
posed to be supportive, but she had given up. “Do you
do is write code and program games. We celebrated at his
think they are going to let people like you and me in? No,
place and while I have never been into drinking and stuff
coño. They need us, they want us, but only as long as we
like that, I drank a little, and, we went all the way. I was
are cheap labor and they can keep that finger to squash us
so embarrassed. He really didn’t know what to do either,
down. Me entiendes,mija. When the jews were in Egypt,
so within a few seconds or minutes he… well, was done.
they didn’t like them. Somos los nuevos judios.”
He then told me that he had seen in porn and that he was
I met a boy in school, Taylor. He is an anglo white kid,
supposed to have lasted a lot longer and be able to do
a little chubby like me and a Star Wars geek. We went to
all these different things. I gave him a kiss and we played
the prom together. I was Princess Leah, and he went as a
video games.
Storm Trooper since he already had the complete uniform.
My sister had been applying to a ton of schools as well
People in school said we shouldn’t have done that, were
and since her grades were not as good as mine it has been
too weird, that it didn’t go together, that he should have
a lot harder for her. Yet she got accepted to my school. Oh
been Hans Solo or someone like that. But no. We were hap-
my god, girl. We could go to school together, be in the
py the way it was. We kissed a lot after the prom, even
same dorm, it was going to be great.
though we didn’t go to the after-parties because we didn’t have any tuxedos or fancy night dresses. We didn’t care.
Papi was not too happy about this. “Yo las quiero mucho, hijas. ¿Pero cómo vamos a pagar por esto?” I love
I applied to some universities and got accepted to
you so much, but how are we going to pay for all of this?
some of them from out of state. But I could not get enough
We looked for every grant we could get, every penny we
scholarships to pay for the tuition. Then an in-state school
could shave off. It was still a lot of money, but Papi said
accepted me. I was so happy I called Taylor and told him.
that construction was starting to pick up and gracias a que
It was a really, really good school he told me, like an Ivy
nos odian, thanks that they hate us, so many workers had
League school, but in the South. He found an article where
left the country. If they were going to build a wall it would
they said that they were a “Sanctuary” school. That they
be so people did not leave. So if he could get a fourth crew
would protect people like me. Indocumentados.
and we could help him with paperwork and administrative
I graduated and in the meantime got a job at a Mex-
things, he might be able to pull it off.
ican restaurant taking orders at the front. I practiced my
Then it came in the news. The State said that they were
Spanish real hard. This was not one of those places pre-
not allowed to be Sanctuary schools or anything like that.
tending to be a Mexican restaurant and selling you hard
We would have to pay out of state tuition, which was tens
shell tacos and burritos. No, this place was the real thing,
of thousands more.
tortas, pupusas, tacos de chivo, al pastor, cesos. The con-
We had a little cry together when we gathered every-
diment counter had four different salsas, limes and a bowl
thing. Only one would be able to go to school. Only one
filled with radishes. The place was packed with construc-
would be able to pursue her dreams. The other one could
tion workers, landscapers, mechanics from all the dealers,
work for Papi until things cleared up or we figured some-
painters, chiroqueadores, brick and stone contractors. One
thing else.
day Papi showed up with one of his crews. All their t-shirts
I felt really bad and cried all night. I was an illegal. If I
had Papi’s name on the front and back. Papi did brick and
ever got stopped driving, it would be the end. Yet, I was
stone work and had three crews. At one time he even hired
going to go to school, to one of the finest schools in the
Americans but they didn’t make it. The Georgia heat les
south. I could not let my sister down. I could not let Papi
quema el cerebro, fries their brain, he said. Or the job was
and Mami and Nana down. I could not let my small brother
too intense, like when mi Papi had a contract with a four
who didn’t care down.
story high building, one man would grab six loose bricks
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I had to do this, even if some day they deported me.
El Molcajete por Edward Ibarra
Azahares 2018
31
LABIOS DEL SUR por Verónica Lourdes El lunes envuelta en luna muerta en la orilla de mi escritorio ojalá te acerques a mis arterias solo o lleno de llamas lúcido como insomnio El martes en cuestión de segundos me conviertes de Nefertiti en una fiesta a la que nadie asistió Esta espera lleva una especie de esperanza El miércoles nos damos cita entre monumentos de loto arrasándonos en la encrucijada de los sexos El jueves como si saboreara tragos ineluctables de noviembre cuando tú existes y no existes El viernes voy a verte vestida para el final cortocircuito voy a festejar el naufragio entre tus omóplatos solemnes El sábado vuelvo a nacer huérfana para tu piel de poesía pura que inmortalizo con tinta de champán El domingo celebro la misa sobre tus párpados hombre que me nombra su hambre y a veces su precipicio Labios del sur sobre los del norte Cuerpo de medianoche contra el cuerpo de amanecer
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
PANAMERICANA NORTE por Lupita Eyde-Tucker La neblina ensopada envuelve la carretera desde la costa a la sierra cada curva claustrofóbica sube el suspenso, en una serie serpentina sin fin Nudo de Boliche nudo de garganta nudo de sangre en mis venas en un arcén, la furgoneta para y salto la zanja entre pavimento y páramo para poner pies sobre tierra pero esta cordillera de pena me agarra por los zapatos, y mi cabeza se siente suelta, a punto de volar como un globo lento bateado y arrinconado por la neblina pesada que nos envuelve. Me sofoca. Desde la furgoneta, la voz de mi padre me alcanza, tápate la cabeza para que no te dé soroche. Pero es demasiado tarde para eso. Yo ya no sé quién soy se han borrado las yemas de mis dedos y mis ojos cerrados aceleran los efectos de limbo entre costa y sierra, y en ese vacío me agarra la cordillera. Entre esta pena y la próxima un nudo de tiempo me ata y no me suelta.
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PASEO SOLITARIO por Elidio La Torre cada verano me gusta ser nadie en esta ciudad grande de taxis que al transitar parecen un prado de caléndulas flotando sobre la amplia tarea del asfalto en hacerse avenida, donde callejear es perderse en un cuerpo que se posee paso a paso las cornisas monologan un lenguaje marmolado que solo las reinitas de magnolia, con su rostro negro y corona gris horizonte neoyorquino, escuchan cuando vuelan junto al fantasma de Lennon desde las arboledas de Central Park la vida ha de proseguir, me dijiste una vez mientras quemabas un beso en mi mejilla cansada cada verano salgo a buscarte y termino siempre entre las inagotables luces en Times Square, donde bailamos el adiós prestado frente a la cámara del Visitors Center, expuestos al mundo entre y neón mientras yo besaba formas inescapables de olvido en el solitario cielo de tu mirada quedo en paz, apagando el tiempo como la carne encendida que se consume hasta quedar en un desierto de ceniza blanca allí, también me gusta ser nadie
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
NORMAN IS GRUMPY by Anthony Alas In Harlem, the land where Billy Holiday sang, James Bald-
wood paneling, quirky pictures found at flee markets in
win wrote, and Arthur Miller grew up, a red headed Latino
Brooklyn, knick-knacks, owl lamps, and a small bed with
boy, Norman Palacios, planned artistic domination.
dinosaurs on it.
Strolling home from 135th Street station, he rushed past
Removing his helmet and placing his coat on the coat
incoming traffic and the honks of gypsy cabs. Delis, beauty
hanger, Norman fell into the comforts of a cozy win-
shop marquis, and the Empire State Building lit up a star-
ter’s evening. As he shut his eyes, there was a knock on
less night from a distance.
the door, “Mijo, mijo, you’re very rude.” Rolling his eyes, Norman yelled back, “Why ma? I don’t want to be nice to
Dirty snow banks created little valleys with years of old
people.”
gum along Lenox Avenue. Black ice was inevitable. A ninja turtle helmet covered his auburn fro. The only hints of his
“Get off your ass and say hello to your abuela. She came
Puerto Rican, Salvadoran, and English heritage sometimes
all the way from Jersey and has pastelitos for you.” Imme-
played around caramelized eyes. With a face full of freckles
diately his hunger got the best of him. “I’ll be down in 15
and zits, Norman played connect the dots with his face.
minutes. Must find a nice cardigan to wear for Abuela.”
He avoided the black ice on busy Lenox Avenue, but walked
Slowly, he made his way down the old staircase. Fidget-
slower along the brownstone littered, 132nd, where he
ing with his tie, he grew increasingly nervous. The music
lived. Finally, he arrived at this brownstone, the steps cov-
disturbed his ears. He preferred jazzy numbers from Ella
ered in salt. The basement apartment below was serenad-
Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington, better suited to his style and
ing the narrow street with salsa music.
neighborhood.
Silhouettes danced along the bay window. Shit, fuck, shit.
From a distance, he glanced at the roast pig with an ap-
It was the annual “We bring Punta Cana to 132nd Street”
ple his mouth. The crispy skin and buttery texture seduced
Christmas party that his family hosted every year. They had
him. With his mouth salivating, he was interrupted by a
lived at their modest brownstone for two years.
shoulder-tap.
Releasing the ornate and very old fashion key from his
His father Antonio Palacios met his eyes. Like Norman, he
murse (man purse), he unlocked the door. Peeking his
had a freckled face but with Mayan eyes. His hair was a
head in, the music intensified, many people crowded
shock of white. He wore a pinstriped suit with a t-shirt to
around the living room (located on the side of the wooden
give him an air of bohemia. As a well-known artist, Antonio
staircase). The finest rustic fire logs, from upstate, burned.
moved to Harlem, pre-gentrification.
Roast pork intoxicated his nostrils. He longed for lechón with black beans and rice.
He encouraged his son’s eccentricities but secretly hoped he would be more social. The Kravitz family stood next to
However, if it meant having to deal with people and small-
Antonio. The ultimate nuclear family had just moved into
talk, Norman would rather die of starvation. Even as a
their uptown cocoon.
New Yorker, the thought of small-talk and lots of question boosted his anxiety levels. Rushing upstairs to his room,
Two point five kids, a stroller, dog with mental health is-
he shut the door behind him.
sues, and gluten allergies were the typical characteristics of these newcomers. Typically, they ventured in from
Flipping on the light switch, floor to ceiling bookshelves
Downtown, where they complained about nose bleeds
lined with books smiled back at him. The room had old
from traveling above 14th Street. Now, Harlem was en
Azahares 2018
35
vogue. Nosebleeds were gone, thanks to the possibility of
In the midst of morning commuters, Norman felt increas-
Whole Foods opening on 125th Street.
ingly judged. Some ladies would grab their purses, thinking he might rob him. Businessmen stared down at his
Bored with the ensuing conversation, Norman excused
shoes, which were covered in grey duct tape. The female
himself. He began carving lechón onto a floral paper plate.
would-be model fixated on his pimples and freckles. “Peo-
After helping himself to some pastelitos, Norman gave
ple...I hate people. They’re judgmental,” he thought
Abuela a kiss and rushed upstairs. Relief came after clos-
to himself.
ing the doors. He could enjoy a Latino feast without using vocal cords.
A perfectly plowed 14th Street had little hints of a past blizzard. Dashing toward Sixth Avenue, a window display
On weekends, Norman would spend countless hours at Le-
distracted him. An independent office supply shop had a
nox coffee, reading books. He read one a week. Very rare-
colorful display of post-it notes. Neon blue, hot pink, Flori-
ly did he venture anywhere that required subway usage.
da orange, something so simple dazzled him.
Rarely seeing his family, Norman enjoyed solitude more than any other boy in Harlem.
Distraction lasted until he reached “Xavier School for Boys” on 16th and Sixth Avenue. Xavier was famous for
Unfortunately, solitude couldn’t last long. “Norman, get
giving the world its future post-collegiate bankers/bros
your ass up. You need to go to school,” yelled Lily, his
who all happened to live in Murray Hill.
mother. Her strong Nyroquian accent was more efficient at waking Central Harlem up than any church bell or am-
The school drilled conformity into the craniums of Manhat-
bulance siren.
tan’s jerks-in-training. In class, he was one of the few Hispanic students. He had the same classmates for practically
Norman awoke from slumber with a half read copy of “A
every class. Sitting in the back of the classroom provided
Confederacy of Dunces” next to his bed. Placing his pea
comfort. He thought about the colorful display of post-it
coat over his school uniform, which consisted of a royal
notes.
blue cardigan, red tie, white shirt and khakis, he dashed downstairs.
Thoughts about the annoying looks from subway commuters also puzzled him. He felt sad anyone would think of
The kitchen lay past the formal living room. Lily, a ra-
him as a thief or try to dominate his personal space. Class
ven-haired woman in a business suit, read the New York
was let out early that day, due to a possible mega-blizzard
Times in her formal living room. Norman bolted, with Lilly
traveling toward the Northeast.
chasing after him, “Norman, your pants are all wrinkly!” The pretty post-it notes still dazzled him. He went into the He ignored her demands. Norman hated mornings, espe-
office supply shop and bought a dazzling array of colorful
cially in the subway. Sitting next to total strangers, he was
post-it notes. Soon, he jammed into a crowded Uptown
always suffocated. The perks to living far uptown were al-
3 train.
ways having a seat in the morning. Seeing an empty seat, he attempted to grab it. “Excuse me, It took thirty minutes to travel from 135th Street to his
excuse me,” he shouted. Nobody moved. Frustrated, he
school in Chelsea, off 14th Street. As the train grew in-
pushed his way through. Sadly, the grumpy old lady with
creasingly crowded with morning commuters, Norman
sensitive ears grabbed the seat. Frustrated, he pumped up
would lose patience.
the volume on his iPod.
The typical cast of characters always puzzled him. The
The hues of the post-it notes peeked out from his “Literary
man-spreader always sat next to him, dominating person-
Superheroes” tote bag. “What do I do with these post-it
al space as well as two seats. By 96th Street came the old
notes? Too pretty for homework.”
lady, who never ceased to complain about his earphone’s noise levels. Terror engulfed him upon seeing a pregnant
Arriving in Harlem, he poured salt on his stoop, preparing
lady, which meant he’d have to give up his seat.
for the incoming blizzard. He then worked on his art project, a 3D map of London. It was set inside a moving box,
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
with a big peek-a-boo hole. After dinner with his parents,
Rather than having a vocal conversation with the head
he returned to his project.
master, he spoke with colorful post-it notes. The postit notes read everything from “anti-establishment” to
The snow didn’t fall as intensely as predicted. The next day,
“mean” and “shit.”
he schlepped the heavy box down the stoop, up Lenox Avenue, and down to the subway. Carrying the heavy box
Lily came huffing and puffing into the office. “Norman,
was beyond torturous. Even in a New York winter’s day,
what the hell are you doing?” He pointed to the “self ex-
beads of sweat dripped onto the filthy train station.
pression” post-it. Infuriated, Lily’s big brown eyes opened in horror, “I am tired of your shit. Sorry, headmaster.”
While he struggled to swipe his metro card, the train pulled into the station. After many failed attempts, the third swipe
In the grand tradition of Latina mothers, she tried her
finally worked. Barely making it into the subway car, he
best to awaken Catholic guilt in her son. “Unless you stop
found it crowded. Fearing his precious art project would be
wearing post-it notes, you won’t be able to come back to
smashed, he placed the box between his legs.
school.” Norman smiled. He hated the repressive environment.
Surprisingly, not one seat opened up. From 135th Street to 72nd Street, stress ensued; life’s sardine-can became more
In his bedroom, he eavesdropped on his parents’ argu-
crowded. With the crowds came a kick to Norman’s boxed
ment. “He’s an arty kid, Lily. He doesn’t want to conform.
art project. Pissed, he tapped on the suited man who had
I never like that school,” yelled Antonio. Lily spoke even
kicked it. “Excuse me, sir, you kicked my box. It’s
more intensely: “If he gets kicked out, where are we going
my homework.”
to place him?”
The man rolled his eyes. “Toughen up, buddy,” he said.
A knock on the door, Antonio peaked his head in. “Nor-
Norman didn’t know whether to cry or punch him out. He
man, your mother and I have agreed to give you a day off.
figured the man would exit at 42nd Street, but he didn’t.
She wants you to get rid of the post-it notes. Just think
Dwelling on the incident, Norman was frustrated that his
about your decisions to let everyone stare at you.”
voice had not been heard. Antonio suffered great pangs of guilt. He wanted his son Staring at the pretty post-it notes in his bag, he pulled one
to feel accepted. Norman was still speaking through post-it
out, along with a black Sharpie. “I’m pissed off,” he wrote
notes the next morning. In an attempt to support his son,
and stuck the note to his chest. He then tapped the man on
Antonio invited Norman for a day at the Strand Bookstore.
the shoulder. The man rolled his eyes again. “I am sorry, kid,” he replied. After, he exited at 34th Street Penn Station.
Already heavily covered in post-it notes, Antonio and Norman rode the subway. Norman saw the lady who feared
Norman glanced down at his post-it note. It was more ef-
he would nab her purse. He wrote, “I am not a crook.” She
fective than using his vocal cords. Making his way onto
was baffled. To the man-spreader, he wrote, “Don’t spread
14th, he paraded the pavement with the “I’m pissed” post-
them.” Utilizing post-it notes, he relayed every thought.
it note. Not many people paid any attention, although he
After switching trains, they arrived at the Strand. “I’m elat-
did receive some praise from angry New Yorkers.
ed,” wrote Norman. He stuck the post-it note to his leg. They waltzed into the Strand. It was a literary relief. The legendary
After arriving at his school, he headed toward the back
bookshop was Norman’s favorite spot in the city.
of the class. Mr. Weinstein glanced down at Norman’s tape-covered sneakers. “Mr. Norman, your shoes…
Browsing the titles and wonderfully enticing displays, Nor-
change now.
man received a few stares. He didn’t think much of them. His cell phone rang. Lily was calling. He ignored it and con-
“Self Expression,” Norman wrote on a post-it note. Af-
tinued digging through the shelf filled with Joan Didion
ter sticking it to his chest below the “I’m pissed” post-it
books.
note, he was told to go to the headmaster’s office. Norman threw his art project on the ground and marched toward
Antonio’s phone rang. He was on the phone with Lily argu-
the headmaster’s office.
ing. Norman stared. Bolting toward Norman, Antonio was
Azahares 2018
37
nervous. “Looks like you’re all over social media, Norman.” Norman shrugged his shoulders took out a post-it, and wrote, “Do not value any opinion but my own.” After purchasing their books, they headed back to Harlem. By then, he started noticing passengers taking photos of him. Worried about becoming a media sensation, he decided not to remove any post-it notes. Instead he walked up to a group of hipsters and wrote, “Respect me.” An avalanche of publicity followed. Post-it notes sales went up. Fashion designers from Marc Jacobs to Zach Posen designed dresses with post-it notes. The subways and pavements became less noisy, as people only wanted to communicate through post-it notes. Due to publicity, Norman was allowed to finish his winter semester at Xavier High School. As the holidays approached, he saw ads for post-it notes with the tagline “Just Label Yourself.” Torrential rain fell upon Gotham. Dashing into a deli, Norman bought a cheap umbrella. As he headed toward the Seventh Avenue subway, his labels were smearing. Ducking under scaffolding, he worried about ruining his labels. He forgot potential rain showers when the city’s wind-tunnel effect blew off some of his post-it notes. Covered in ink, he grew further frustrated. His post-it notes were damaged. Post-it notes flew through the sky. Bright yellow, neon blue, and hot pink. He observed other New Yorkers chasing after them. He finally said his first vocal word in weeks: “Fuck this shit.” Yearning for his warm brownstone, he braved the rain without the fear of losing his labels. He arrived at the subway platform and the typical mob of commuters pushed their way in. Getting elbowed in the stomach, he grunted in pain. He didn’t quite notice who hit him. Aggressively, he pushed his way into the train. Yelling from the top of his lungs, he proclaimed, “Hey, fuck you all. Somebody can be a decent human being and apologize.” He found his voice. When New Year’s came, he made a resolution to use his voice. Although post-it notes sales plummeted, Norman was proud to finally call himself a leader in his own hometown.
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Gateway by SaraShiva Spitzer
Azahares 2018
39
SI NO ESTÁS AQUÍ por Verónica Lourdes Si no estás aquí mi cuerpo se hace nadie y ronda mi voz esparciendo murciélagos. Yo, simplemente y a lo quinceañera, marchito por ti mientras hago la cama, el amor, la ensaladilla rusa, el hijo que se irá al filo del próximo mes. He llevado tu ausencia cual perla incrustada en el lóbulo izquierdo y mañana vuelvo a verte perfil de Ulises soplo de música meridiana sobre los patios helados de Moscú. Tus ojos, de tan azules, naufragios. ¿Por qué no me invitas a pasar este otoño en tu sangre cariñosa? Con tu origen de fiesta verdadera y tu carne de adulterio y con el ombligo donde pondrá casa la nostalgia colocándoles el nombre a todas las islas donde quisiera acostarme contigo mirándome largo en un encuentro breve sin olvidar de suministrarme la diaria dosis de instantes infinitos disfrazado de astro burgués y para siempre de par en par abriéndome la espera apareces y todo es posible y todo es demonio y todo es resurrección.
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
MIS MANOS por Aimee M. Esparza Mis manos son chaparras y cortas Son como salchichas quemadas en el comal que calienta las tortillas cada noche Mis manos están sucias de juntar la basura que me dejaron Mis manos miran un sueño que nunca me voy a cansar de soñar un sueño de la casa en que pusimos con todo nuestro corazón un sueño de trabajar en la oficina cuyas paredes pinté Mis manos lloran para que ese sueño sea realidad Mis manos tienen la sangre de trabajadores empleados que incansablemente trabajan cada día Mis manos escriben en inglés pero mi mente y corazón piensan en español Nuestro gobierno pone la culpa Del crecimiento de drogas Del crecimiento de criminales en nuestra nación en nuestras manos en nuestras manos cafés Las manos de mi madre manchadas de cloro Pero mi ropa tiene olor como flores frescas Las manos de mi papá que tienen cemento pegado en su piel pero otra familia extraña descansa en una casa bella Mis manos rezan, por el día en que mis manos y las manos de mis latinos no sean los dulces que nadie quiere en el día de espantos que un día seamos el chocolate que a todos les gusta Mis manos abrazan a mi familia cada día mis manos luchan por tocar las estrellas en el cielo Mis manos luchan con orgullo Mis manos llenas de amor
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RAN KAN KAN by Alex Lobera In the beginning God slumbered before he created and was woken from his slumber by the beat of ancient drums. “What is this sound I hear?” asked God. Even though He did not understand the beat, it made his feet tap. But there was no one to ask and so God went to task creating heaven and earth. And Heaven. And from the earth (or maybe Heaven?) he created Tito Puente. God asked Tito to translate the drumbeat for Him. Tito listened to the beat, and heard that it was good, and tried to explain it to God as best he could. But still God, try as he would, did not understand the language of the drums. Then Tito set to work, asking God for tools: piano, trumpets and marimba, and he, Tito, not God, brought his timbales to accompany the primordial dundun. Tito played his music to the antediluvian drums and the ancient and the new merged into one. And Tito heard that it was good. And at last God understood. And God, dancing, started to sing, And his song created all Creation: stars and apples and sparrows and trees. After six days of dancing, singing and creating, God grew tired. His bones ached from the dance. But it so pleased him, He created Man and Woman, so they could dance for Him. And they began to dance. (Oh, how, to this day they dance still!) And God rested, his ears cradled by the music Tito made. And even though God slept, He could not keep his feet from continuing to tap.
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Flower by SaraShiva Spitzer
Azahares 2018
43
MY ABUELA WAS A SEAMSTRESS por Michelle Flores In memory of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911
She sewed many things:
bathing suits, dresses, jackets, buttons.
She too found place in the New York sweatshops
trading fábrica for factoria,
lavandería for laundri,
El Oriente for Brooklyn.
These women. Their work. The chains on each door. The thread in each bobbin. The prick of each needle. Did their nietas wonder why they didn’t make it home for dinner that night? Were their lovers waiting underneath a marquee? These women flinging themselves out of windows, their blood runs in the air in me.
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
UN MOMENTO by Richard DiPietra Los padres de mi mamá vinieron de Cuba ya hacía años,
ahora se le veía veteado por numerosas canas. Casi siem-
cuando aún había muy buenas relaciones entre los dos
pre se lo recogía en una trenza que dejaba caer por la
países. A los americanos les gustaba todo lo que venía de
espalda o hacía de ella un moño. Ahora, lo tenía suelto y
Cuba: la comida, la música, los bailes y, sí, hasta la gente.
esparcido, así como un abanico grande que le daba hasta
Mi abuela vivió, en una casita de Ybor City, hasta la edad
los pies. Rodeada de motas de polvo que resplandecían a
de noventa y pico años. Crió a diez hijos y nunca aprendió
la luz del sol, parecía una santa de estampa. Aun así, ni se
a hablar inglés; mejor dicho, nunca tuvo que hablar inglés.
movía ni chistaba.
En la bodega de la esquina, en el hospital, en la panadería,
Hola, abuela. ¿Cómo estás? ¿Todo bien? Nada. Algo
en la farmacia, todos hablaban su lengua. Nos hablaba a
sucedía. Ni cuenta se daba de que yo estaba presente. In-
nosotros, sus nietos, en español y, aunque yo no lo habla-
tenté otra vez.
ba muy bien, ella y yo hacíamos el esfuerzo por comunicarnos lo que es esencial del amor y la vida.
¿Abuelita, estás bien? Por fin, al ella contestarme en su melifluo español, logré entender con dificultad.
Siempre me molestó que nunca dominé el español.
Tengo 93 años de edad . . . hace 15 días . . . ¡tenía 23!
Mamá lo habla requetebién; ¡Papá hablaba español e
Paseábamos por el Malecón y las olas estaban tan altas
italiano! Yo, sin embargo, sólo sabía lo básico—las malas
que tratamos de echarnos a correr, mis amigos y yo, pero
palabras, el vocabulario mínimo para poder pedir en los
el agua nos empapó. Nos mojamos tanto . . . el pelo . . .
restaurantes latinos y, desde luego, las partes pudendas de
todo el vestido . . . el mío estaba cubierto de camelias . . .
la anatomía femenina.
íbamos a . . . .
Siempre soñé con que el idioma me surgiera, por arte
En ese momento, titubeó. Un poco desorientada y, a la
de magia, todo claro y disponible y que al menos pudiera
vez, un poco triste. No recuerdo haberla visto triste nunca.
sostener una verdadera conversación en una de las len-
Le sonreí a esa su cara tan conocida, a esos ojos claros
guas maternas de mis antepasados. Sin embargo, más
tan azules como el mar distante que llevaba por dentro.
adelante, se me cumplió el sueño gracias a mi abuelita
Entonces, poco a poco, ella fue alzando la manita hasta
cubana.
tocarme en la mejilla y respondió, Sí, muy bien.
Anduve fuera por unos años y, por consiguiente, dejé
Ya recompuesto, le di un fuerte abrazo. La sentía tan
de ver a mi abuela. Sus hijos eran ya mayores y vivían
frágil. La conduje al sofá donde nos sentamos por largo
aparte cuando regresé. Ella, una ancianita dulce y gener-
rato, de manos dadas, intercambiando sonrisas, hacién-
osa, insistía en vivir sola en un barrio que había decaído
donos preguntas sencillas. Las palabras me surgían como
con los años.
una memoria, como si siempre las hubiera sabido, pero
Al regresar al barrio, me detuve en la La Segunda Central para comprar una flauta de pan cubano. Después de
que no podía pronunciarlas sino hasta ahora, a una edad adulta.
pasar el Parque Cuscaden, más allá del depósito de agua
Por fin llegó la hora y me le despedí con un beso en la
y del hospital, en la esquina al frente de la bodega Shirley
cara. Abuelita me siguió hasta el viejo y crujiente portal.
Ann’s, llegué a la casita de madera de mi abuela. Toqué
Se había puesto una bata de casa y se veía rejuvenecida,
levemente en la puerta metálica a la espera de su calurosa
ahora luciendo una larga trenza que le caía por encima del
bienvenida a mi inesperada visita. ¿Abuela? Ni un sonido.
hombro. Me dio su sonrisa de valentía y un adiós.
Al mirar por la tela metálica, vi que estaba de pie en el me-
Al alejarme en el carro, me volteé para ver por última
dio de la sala. Ya un poco preocupado, me dejé entrar y me
vez su jardín bien cuidado con la vieja tendedera—su ten-
le acerqué diciéndole “Abuela”.
dido vestido floreado ondeaba en la brisa.
Abuelita siempre había sido bien bajita (ni siquiera medía 5 pies) y el cabello, antes negro como el azabache,
Azahares 2018
45
TÚ por Jordan Pomeroy
A veces en esta vida conocemos a una persona que lo cambia todo, una persona que desafía las partes más profundas de ti, y reemplaza los sentimientos de soledad y ansiedad con ambición y fuerza. ¿Quién hubiera creído que alguien con ojos oscuros y pensativos y llenos de conocimiento podría ver mi alma como lo hace un viejo amigo? ¿Cómo puede una persona con el pelo de león, loco y libre, domar la tormenta dentro de mí? Pienso que es de la misma manera en que él toca las cuerdas de la guitarra con sus dedos largos y delgados que así toca cada fibra de mi ser. Con manos apacibles y precisas, él crea música con notas que embellecen mi corazón como el oro embellece la corona de una reina. Tiene una voz que es como un río que deja su marca en cada lugar que toca y cuando él habla, el mundo para y escucha. Su cuerpo cuenta la historia de su pasado en las cicatrices de su piel, y de su cuello cuelga un collar con un cristal. Lleva un tatuaje que dice “perfección no es realidad” pero no veo nada que sea más perfecto que él. Gracias por existir.
46
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Fuentes Mágicas de Montjuïc, Barcelona, España por Chris Arianne Vallejo Villegas
Azahares 2018
47
LISTA DE CONTRIBUIDORES ANTHONY ALAS holds a B.A. in Film. He has spent his life
LUPITA EYDE-TUCKER escribe y traduce poesía en inglés
living in Southern California and New York City. Both plac-
y español. Ella ha estudiado poesía en Bread Loaf, Palm
es heavily influence his writing. You can find him at coffee
Beach Poetry Festival, y The Watering Hole. Sus poemas
shops, writing stories, reading books, and savoring fantas-
aparecen en Naugatuck River Review, Glass Mountain, y
tic coffee. Mr. Alas currently resides in the Inland Empire.
Baltimore Review, y en el 2017 fue nominada para un premio de Pushcart.
JOHN CHAVERS disfruta trabajar como artista y fotógrafo. Su trabajo ha sido publicado en Cream City Review, 3Ele‑
MICHELLE LIZET FLORES es cubana-americana y gradua-
ments Review, Whitefish Review, JuxtaProse, Camas Mag‑
da de los programas de escritura creativa de FSU y NYU.
azine, Stonecoast Review y Permafrost Magazine, entre
Maestra de lectura, ha sido publicada anteriormente en re-
otros. Este abril será un artista invitado con la Asociación
vistas como The Miami Rail y Noble / Gas Qtrly y tiene tra-
de Artistas Plásticos Islandeses (SiM) en Korpúlfsstaðir
bajo en la próxima edición de Gravel Magazine. Para más
en Reykjavík.
información en michellelizetflores.com
ALLA DEMINA escribe en inglés y español y redacta rela-
LILIANA HOLGUÍN es una freshman en Lakeside Junior
tos para la revista literaria “Metamorphose.” Antes trabajó
High en Springdale, Arkansas. Es miembro de la banda de
en producción de videojuegos, enseñó lenguas y lideró
Lakeside. Mantiene calificaciones excelentes. Su familia y
varios proyectos artísticos. Adora historias, lenguas y ga-
sus amistades le importan profundamente.
tos; aprendió español en San Petersburgo, Rusia, lo practicó en Málaga, España, y ahora vive en Berlín, Alemania.
EDWARD IBARRA, estudiante universitario de la Universidad de Arkansas – Fort Smith: “El molcajete represents my
MISAEL DE LA ROSA: “De origen mexicano, criado en la
CULTURE as a Mexican Hispanic. People like my grandma
frontera de El Paso/Juárez. Nunca suficientemente mexica-
used it back in the day to smash salsa with a rock to eat
no o americano me encontré perdido hasta que encontré
with our foods. My grandma gave the molcajete to my
la comunidad chicana.”
mom as a sign of mother/daughter bonding. My grandma says the molcajete is usually passed down from genera-
RICHARD DI PIETRA, el hijo de inmigrantes cubanos y
tion to generation.”
sicilianos, es un actor y escritor manteniendo las tradiciones e historias de su ciudad, Ybor City, Florida en vivo
IVÁN IGLESIAS es originario de Colombia. Terminó su li-
por cuarenta años con sus muchas historias y produc-
cenciatura en Lenguas Modernas en la Universidad del
ciones teatrales como Yo Soy un Sandwiche Cubano y Las
Atlántico en Barranquilla, Colombia. Después, continuó su
Historias de Ybor.
educación superior en la Universidad de Arkansas (Fayetteville) donde obtuvo una maestría en Literatura Hispana
AIMEE M. ESPARZA MARTÍNEZ es una freshman en Lake-
en mayo del 2002 y un doctorado en Literatura Comparada
side Junior High en Springdale, Arkansas. Es una estudi-
y Estudios Culturales en diciembre del 2017. Su campo de
ante muy activa. Está involucrada en arte y la banda de
interés es el tema de la violencia y el paso del tiempo, los
Lakeside mientras mantiene altas calificaciones en sus
cuales se reflejan en su trabajo creativo.
clases avanzadas. Forma una parte integral de su clase de Español para Hispanohablantes III. Le encanta viajar con
ELIDIO LA TORRE LAGARES obtuvo su MFA en Escritura
su familia.
Creativa de la Universidad de Texas-El Paso. Su trabajo ha aparecido en Revista Centro Journal (City University of
48
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
New York), Azahares (University of Arkansas-Fort Smith),
the past twenty years she has worked with diverse popula-
Sargasso (University of Puerto Rico), The Acentos Review,
tions in rural and urban settings throughout the American
Nagari, Malpaís Review, Ariel Chart y The American Poetry
Midwest. Ms. Spitzer has curated exhibits of artwork by
Journal. Nominado para el Pushcart Prize, actualmente en-
survivors of domestic violence, incarcerated women, and
seña literatura y escritura creativa en la Facultad de Litera-
“at-risk” teens, and has been an activist-advocate for arts
tura Comparada en la Universidad de Puerto Rico.
as a means of bringing attention to issues of social and economic injustice. Her current projects consider race and
ALEX LOBERA es estudiante de Maestría en el Programa
poverty in urban landscapes. Some of her work has ap-
de Escritura Creativa (bilingüe) de la Universidad de Texas
peared in TRANSverse Journal, Alluvian, and Meat for Tea,
en El Paso y el programa de Dirección de Cine de Academy
and an image|text collaboration with poet D. M. Spitzer is
of Art University, San Francisco.
in production for the Hawai’i Review’s echapbook series.
MICHELLE MITCHELL-FOUST recibió su Ph.D. de la Univer-
CHRIS VALLEJO nació en Barcelona (España) en 1994. De
sidad de Missouri-Columbia y es la autora de seis libros en
padres peruanos, siempre ha tenido muy latente el mun-
inglés: dos libros de poesía, Circassian Girl (Elixir Press)
do latinoamericano, tanto en sus tradiciones como en su
y Imago Mundi (Elixir Press); y dos libros chicos, Poets at
visión del mundo. Es graduada en Podología por la Univer-
Seven (Sutton Hoo Press) and Exile (Sangha Press); dos
sidad de Barcelona y también escribe historias a la orilla
antologías que co-editó con Tony Barnstone, Dead and Un‑
del mar Mediterráneo.
dead Poems y Monster Verse, publicados por Everyman Press en 2014 y 2015.
LOURDES VERÓNICA es traductora y profesora nacida en Moscú pero actualmente residente en Roma. Tiene publi-
ROBERT PAUL MOREIRA es maestro de escritura creativa y
cados algunos poemas en inglés en las revistas literarias
dramaturgia en la Universidad de Tejas Rio Grande Valley.
In My Bed Magazine, Lavender Review y en Silver Birch
Su colección de cuentos, Scores, gano el premio de ficción
Press’s I Am Waiting Poetry series. Su poema “Sorry” fue
2016 de NACCS Tejas FOCO. Es el editor de Arriba Baseball!
nominado para el 2015 Pushcart Prize.
A Collection of Latina/o Baseball Fiction (2013). L. VOCEM NUÑEZ’S stories have been published in The JORDAN POMEROY es estudiante en la Universidad de
Americas Review, Magic Realism, Well Versed, storySouth,
Arkansas en Fort Smith. Estudia español y le encanta la
Zoetrope All-Story Extra. He was the featured writer for the
cultura latina, el idioma y la gente.
Paumanok Review and won Best Fiction second prize in AIM Quarterly. One of his photographs has been published
IKER SEDEÑO egresó de la Universidad de Arkansas-Fort
in the current issue of Blue Mesa Review. He has a BFA
Smith en mayo del 2017 obteniendo el B.A. en Español y
from the Atlanta College of Art (now Savannah College of
el certificado TESL, graduándose con honores Cum Laude.
Art & Design SCAD), and attended the Iowa Summer Writ-
En su último semestre en dicha universidad recibió el Ac-
ers’ Workshop and Oglethorpe University Writers Work-
ademic Excellence Award y el Chancellor’s Spirit Award.
shop. To read more of L. Vocem’s published stories go to
Actualmente se encuentra estudiando la maestría en Liter-
lvocem.com.
atura en español en la Universidad de Tennessee-Knoxville y trabajando como Graduate Student Assistant. En el verano del 2017 cumplió su sueño de viajar de mochilero por el mundo recorriendo 6 países: Japón, Taiwán, Tailandia, Alemania, Las Islas Canarias (España) y Escocia. LOUIS SOLTERO es un freshman en Lakeside Junior High en Springdale, Arkansas. Es una parte integral de sus clases avanzadas. Sobresale en deportes de todo tipo y en ajedrez. Lo que más le importa en su vida es su familia. SARASHIVA SPITZER is an arts educator and visual artist specializing in photography and mixed media collage. Over
Azahares 2018
49
AZAHARES 2019 Call for Submissions
Submission Deadline: January 17, 2019
Priority is given to Spanish language works. If in English, the submission must thematically reflect Latino culture. All artwork and photography must reflect the culture of the Spanish-speaking world. GENERAL SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS AND GUIDELINES: • On-line submissions only: https://azaharesliterarymagazine.submittable. com/submit • Each author or artist may submit up to three of his/her works for publication. • Each author or artist must submit a 60 word biography in Spanish, written in 3rd person. • Please submit in word .doc or .docx format • No .pdfs
POETRY SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS: • Poems must be submitted in the page layout intended for publication. • 200-line maximum per poem
PROSE SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS: • 3,500 maximum word count
ARTWORK/PHOTOGRAPHY SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS: • Color and black-and-white submissions are accepted. • Indicate medium used on the submission form (watercolors, oils, digital photography, etc.) • Save with as high a resolution as possible (between 300 and 1200 dpi)
ANTICIPATED PUBLICATION DATE: SPRING 2019.
50
University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
ENGAGE IN CULTURE with the
World Languages Department The World Languages Department at the University of
medical, business and government service, as well as to
Arkansas – Fort Smith offers a Bachelor of Science in Span-
complete graduate work in Spanish. Students completing
ish with teacher licensure as well as a Bachelor of Arts in
the BS or the BA have the opportunity to study abroad and/
Spanish. The literary magazine Azahares forms part of the
or participate in a Spanish internship in area businesses.
array of professional opportunities which the World Languages Department seeks to provide.
The World Languages Department also offers the Teaching English as a Second Language (TESL) - Certificate of
The Bachelor of Science in Spanish with teacher licen-
Proficiency as well as the coursework necessary for an En-
sure at UAFS is designed for future teachers who desire
dorsement for English as a Second Language, grades P-12.
to make an important impact in the education of others
Current UAFS students can add these courses to enhance
through their ability to engage and motivate students. This
their future employability. Teachers already working in the
degree prepares students to teach Spanish at grade lev-
field can add the endorsement to increase their marketabil-
els 7 through 12. Courses prepare students in topics such
ity and their areas of expertise. TESL Certification is also
as Spanish language and Latino culture, linguistic char-
designed for international students who are preparing to
acteristics of the Spanish languages, and language peda-
teach English as a Second Language abroad.
gogy. For more information, contact Dr. Ana María Romo
For more information on the World Languages Depart-
Blas, Director of the Spanish Teacher Licensure Program, at
ment at UAFS, please feel free to contact Dr. Mary Sobhani,
AnaMaria.RomoBlas@uafs.edu.
Department Head, at Mary.Sobhani@uafs.edu. Visit us at
The Bachelor of Arts in Spanish prepares student to meet the qualifications for employment opportunities in
www.uafs.edu or find us on Facebook @UAFS-World Languages Department and @UAFS_Azahares.
Azahares 2018
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EN EL SOL por Louis Martínez Soltero En el sol con mi pá’ Limpiando con mi má’ 6 hijos una mamá Un hijo y un pá’ En el sol por agua y electricidad Mi familia es mi recompensa Somos latinos trabajadores Cada uno diferente En el sol para nuestros objetivos Levantando uno al otro del piso Todos formando el futuro Soy mexicano-americano And I’m in the sun for my family
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu
Mosaico Morisco NĂşmero 2 por John Chavers Azahares 2018
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“Lo que diferencia azar de azahar, lo que hace que el uno no huela a nada y el otro sí, es la h, que es una hache de perfumería.” — Ramón Gómez de la Serna, Greguerías
5210 Grand Ave. • P.O. Box 3649 Fort Smith, AR 72913-3649 888-512-5466 • 479-788-7120
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University of Arkansas – Fort Smith | uafs.edu