{"id":3587,"date":"2015-08-27T14:13:25","date_gmt":"2015-08-27T14:13:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/?p=3587"},"modified":"2015-08-27T14:13:25","modified_gmt":"2015-08-27T14:13:25","slug":"dendrology-sappho-in-new-york-yesenia-montilla","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/?p=3587","title":{"rendered":"Dendrology & Sappho In New York – Yesenia Montilla"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Summer of \u201877 I\u00a0learned
\nthe Spanish phrase: pelo malo<\/em>
\nwhen my aunt announced
\nthat I\u2019d never be loved\u00a0by a white man
\ncon ese pelo malo. I loved my hair,
\nthe way it frizzed around the edges
\nof my face & stood there like a woman
\nwaiting to be asked to dance a slow bolero
\na jumpin\u2019 rumba. I was three years old
\ndidn\u2019t know much of love then
\nthe orange tree that stood in my aunt\u2019s yard
\nbecame my first lover. I would wrestle with
\nits tender branches hoist my small frame
\naround its tubby brown trunk thick as a liana
\nor a man\u2019s waist. I wonder now if every lover
\nin my bed in some ways is a representation
\nof that orange tree & those words I heard
\nin that Miami heat about the way love
\ncan be so damn fickle that the texture of my hair
\nwould wilt a pink crotched man, make him
\nrecoil from my locks. Today, I still do
\nhave a fondness for trees, all of them
\nwith their deep roots & their heartwood
\nThe alamedas holding rows of them, singing,
\nshading my unruly hair reminding me that once
\nI was told there would never be an arboretum
\nin my future. That I\u2019d never have the gift of choices:
\nbonsai, white birch, redwood \u2014<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

SAPPHO IN NEW YORK<\/strong><\/p>\n

I.<\/p>\n

She was first spotted on the corner<\/p>\n

of 125th & Lenox
\nher plaited hair curled. Her eyes
\npearls through a rainy mist.
\nThe incense vendor told everyone
\nshe lingered by her table
\npreferred the smell of myrrh &
\nfrankincense. She smelled of the
\nother side: wooden boat oars &
\nsleep. She carried a bag full of
\npoetry books & a purse
\nof the softest leather dyed pink,
\nrumors trailing behind her.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I first saw her on the 1 train
\nShe sat across from me, braided
\nleather sandals & her t-shirt
\nread \u201c I love Ferrymen\u201d & her
\nlips were crescent shaped
\nlike the moon during my cycle.
\nHer arms folded across her body
\nto protect. She asked where
\nI bought my shoes, the leopard
\nprint ones with the red heels I
\nanswered Jersey, she had
\nnever been, only travels island to island:
\nCuba, Dominican Republic, the Maldives,
\nMadagascar, Easter, Martinique, Lesbos.<\/p>\n

My sister called on a March day
\nI saw Sappho,<\/em> she said, I saw her<\/em>
\nShe was waiting for the M4 bus<\/em>
\nI followed her, I couldn\u2019t help it <\/em>
\nthe rumors of her beauty are true<\/em>
\nshe carried a lyre, her fingers,<\/em>
\nthey were the color of burnt umber<\/em>
\ndo you think it is because of longing<\/em>?
\nIs umber the color of loss?<\/p>\n

II.
\n 
\nIt is so yellow, the way the buildings
\nstand upright & cast concrete shadows
\nagainst the speckled sidewalks. The museums
\nare full of the Gods. They look as though
\nthey were stone, but I know they are watching,
\nwaiting for me to enchant them.
\nI only want to pull the strings of this city
\nI am done with immortals, they are too quiet
\nI love the sound heels make against the streets
\nI am falling in love all over the city, leaving
\npeacock feathers completely abandoned on carousels.
\nPoems falling out of my dress
\nI cannot contain them.<\/p>\n

The women here need me, the news reports
\nsightings of me everywhere, but I am not,
\nonly where I am needed.
\nOn the subway women carry heavy loads.
\nOn the pavement their weary feet leave marks
\nthat only I can see, like lipstick
\nstains against dirty napkins in dark bars<\/p>\n

Sometimes I am recognized, but mostly, I am
\nlike a blue jay everyone thinks is a sparrow.
\nI hear them talk about me, they say I am responsible
\nfor the city\u2019s young girls\u2019 disinterest in boys. That
\nsince I\u2019ve arrived women are taking over industry
\n& men have fallen behind, a drop in men that
\ngraduate from college. But I care nothing of
\nindustry. I care about the way a moan sounds
\nin the ear before the chest feels the first pang
\nof surrender.<\/p>\n

Tonight I will strap on the highest heels,
\nstretch my body as if I were
\nstanding on stilts
\nstanding on bricks
\nstanding on the long backs \u2014
\nArabian horses. I will balance my song in
\nthat space between the neck & the shoulder
\nblade. Announcing to every woman
\nthat burnt umber
\nis the color of poetry \u2014<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"nn,Yesenia Montilla is a New York City poet with Afro-Caribbean roots. Her poetry has appeared in the Chapbook For the Crowns of Your Head<\/em>, as well as the literary journals 5AM, Adanna, The Wide Shore<\/em> and others. She received her MFA from Drew University in Poetry and Poetry in Translation and is a CantoMundo Fellow. Her first collection The Pink Box<\/em> is published by Willow Books.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Summer of \u201877 I\u00a0learned the Spanish phrase: pelo malo when my aunt announced that I\u2019d never be loved\u00a0by a white man con ese pelo malo. I loved my hair, the way it frizzed around the edges of my face & stood there like a woman waiting to be asked to dance a slow bolero [&hellip<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3615,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[179],"class_list":["post-3587","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry","tag-art-by-michelle-robinson"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3587","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3587"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3587\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3609,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3587\/revisions\/3609"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3615"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3587"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3587"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3587"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}