Bedford & S 1st 

A. MARTINEZ

Audio: A. Martinez reads.

I. 

Altagracia, Señora, Mama, Grandma Tata, 
the matriarch sits slouched at the table, 
watches the cooking channel, her chin
in hand and her back a mountain
from years of this posture. She serves us 

but never sits when we eat rice and beans 
and lettuce so crispy and light, drizzled 
with olive oil. But now that we are finished 
she is resting in front of the tv. She of few 
words, points to the onions sizzling in the tv pan. 

Her skin is black walnut, thick
like hide, but softest touch. She holds 
my hand like the child I am even now 
and says, “Yo te bendigo. Dios te bendiga.”
I don’t think I believe in god, but her prayers swaddle me.

Every night she prays the rosary, we
her livelihood. She, the pious. A crooked dark finger
lifts over each bead for one of us. 

Her face a woodcut carved of the same 
expression — the weight of caretaking
Eight children, 
twenty-four grandchildren
Thirty-seven great-grandchildren. 
And now two great-great-grandchildren. 
Through this her capacity to love, grown. 
She rarely smiles.

She is smiling at me when I arrive. 
She is smiling at my son when she meets 
him for the first time. 
Though he is dead, she is smiling at my father, 
her youngest son, through us. 

We have spent so many hours here. 


II. 

I stood limply on the roof —
This the last time I ever was at her house. 
When we, the cousins, were young, ran 
up the stone stairs, teasing the roof. The piss
and graffiti interior. Our parents yelling 
below to stay off. 

Today, I stood in each room and soaked 
as much of it into my skin as I could. These things
cannot be captured by photograph. Even 
this poem is not the vessel. 

I studied the yellow walls. These piles of 
papers and bedding. Sterilites stacked to the ceiling,
some porcelain figurine from one of the cousins’ 
sweet sixteens. Everything 
will be thrown out, my aunt told me, except the mattresses 
which would make their way down to their house 
in the DR. There are photos on the wall cinematic 
in their age. Airbrushed softness. One of Mama 
as a young woman, with that same solemn brow. Darkest 
ink for her unblemished skin. One of a man, perhaps 
my grandfather, though I’m not sure and I never asked. 
I know it wasn’t true but couldn’t help think they meant to
throw out these too. 


III. 

First time I remember coming to New York
I am four and it is hard to be there. 
We take the train. I caressing my Barbie, still puke 
in the front middle seat of my aunt’s car. My eyes 
can’t see the street below and the December 
snow is more beautiful like this. 

I am furious everyone says my name wrong, how
could we really be family? 

I watch them boil 
water to bathe in and 

I am wholly taut with objections 
to this.
To them.  

We leave our shoes on. 
Rinse cups from the cupboard 
before we drink. 


IV. 

I stood quietly on the roof — we transmute to
ashy silhouettes in the orange setting sun. 
Below Brooklyn terrain, buildings erect the new hipster tetris. 
One courtyard below has a fortress-style perimeter 
to what end?

My aunties always telling me
to watch my purse when I go out in Williamsburg, 
a remnant of when they first arrived here. 

Things are different now.

Yes, I wanted something better for my grandmother. 
I wanted her not to live in a home that draped 
precariously above her. 

Yes, they took their money, 
but for decades why 

the molded crumbling bathroom. 
The night rat she housed in the kitchen. 
The hyperbolic crack dividing drywall ceiling. 
You’ll move in here with new floors and no holes 
to speak of, you piece of shit. I hope you enjoy her 
home. 


V.

Slowly we all begin to arrive. We 
from Chicago, some from Cleveland, Torrington,
the Bronx, and some from a few blocks away. 
Some of the cousins have spent all day 
drinking Heineken together or that saccharine booze 
in styrofoam cups you can purchase on the street. 
Always around town listening to bachata so loud 
the music dissolving ammunicious in the air. 

We gather in Mama’s apartment. Each 
of us gives a kiss and asks for her blessing. 
I drink a beer as they’re passed around. More 
arrive and the room now saturated 
with side conversations, the television, the radio, a few
squawk into their phones, some dance, and embrace
the babies passed around. Our almond 
eyes shared. Our skin a rainbow of browns. Braids, 
weaves, waves, curls, and hair brushed back so tight 
it lifted the face. This, the family. 

And this, the last time here together. 

All five aunties sit judiciously against the wall 
of the room. They take turns holding their 
grandchildren and grand-nieces and nephews. 
Take turns arguing lovingly and laughing. 

One buzzed cousin accuses—Mama should not have to move
and the rest of us silent. 
“Why are you taking her away from us?” she imputes
what we do not have the courage to. 

But today the second youngest great-grandchild 
receives a blessing from Mama. We gather
around them, Mama sprinkles bottled
water on a leggy sprig of basil. Flings it around 
at the baby, the room, at us, as she prays, we giggle 
drunkenly as the droplets hit two dozen umber faces in April.

This joy is an alternate funeral. One in which 
we are no longer the cared for. But hope is made by shedding.         

A. MARTINEZ is a poet, visual artist, mother, and community and arts organizer living in Chicago. She received her BFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago's Writing Program and is a proud recipient of the 2019 3Arts Make a Wave Award. A.Martinez produces community and cultural events including events that center on and for mothers of color in the arts. In addition to her creative practice, A.Martinez works as an arts administrator. 

A.Martinez will self-release a chapbook of poetry and drawings, Turn, in 2021. Her work explores identity, memory, spirituality, and the body. You can find more at alyssahydemartinez.com

Originally published March 2021 in poiesis 2.1 by w the trees.