Los Nervíos (for Boricuas everywhere)

“Los nervíos te van a matar, mi’ja,” siempre te decían
and pain and anger now seep from your every waking pore
(for love has long been interred in a casket of despair)
you travel to and fro each and every day as if in a dream
(you are somehow there, but not really, not altogether)
you watch each and every face you meet for any sign of life
(you search carefully and desperately … but no nuance emerges)
you screen each and every hand you greet for the stinging slap
that will inevitably find its way across your face
trust no one … trust no one … trust no one
you learned that rule when as a child
those you loved did not return the favor
and instead beat you, raped you and then scorned you
te llamaron “animal, salvaje, hija de tu loca, Boricua madre”
then left you alone on city streets to make do
without ever having instilled their bounty of knowledge of culture
and the formula for papalistic catharsis
without ever having divulged the secret of how not to be so “sensitive”
and to ignore wrongs as they are committed
without ever having cautioned you that your brilliance, passion and grace
will only serve as fodder for poltroons who will pimp off of
(or die trying) genius such as yours
without ever having inspired tolerance for being used time and time again
as warrants “una mujer de tu estatura”
without ever having explained exactly why and how you are
and always will be a hindrance to their grand master plan
and that only those with money and a pure white hue
(and assorted colored recreants willing to go along to get along)
will be the ones to reap victory and good fortune
without ever having taken the time to forewarn you
that all the world is this cruel and this cruel is all it shall ever be
“los nervíos te van a matar, mi’ja” siempre te decían
pero, how do you render the insurmountable
and ever-increasing rhythms of righteous reaction
“do unto others ... “ tambien te decían
but there is no outlet and no justice in sight
so you swallow pride and beat yourself about the head and heart
and try and convince yourself that you are everything they say you are
“animal, salvaje, hija de tu loca, Boricua madre”
until you finally embrace the horror
your desperate dreams have expired
the promise of verity is forever broken
you are now stuck in their prophetic nightmare
y los nervíos si te han matados, mi’ja

© 1994 by Marina Ortiz

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