Sub Umbra Floreo

sound
murmuration
echo

Someone’s Dominican mama cuts off more than I asked for.
Xiomara sings and dances big rollers into my hair today.
Me and Mami continue to learn
bachata this way. Silently
my mother calls her scissors happy
from under the dryer, head full of rollers.
We wash and set. For graduations, picture days,
interviews, I reimagine this an invitation to celebrate me.
When you ask, What are you and tell me how good my hair is.
Mommy teaches me more then $35 is too much; ask for the dube
Bring your own pins, just in case. How to be a smart girl;
learn Spanish in college, talk proper english.
Be chameleon girl,
when the lash lady and hairdresser feel safe enough.
To talk about those people.
This be out of my control. A silent cry.
under the shade of the mahogany,
Born from bloodwood sent downriver,
bleeding black, British Honduras.
Bleeding blues and purples
from Baymen and West Africans,
how I always resemble someone’s cousin?
Me and Mami’s hair bend that way.
I’m reminded I’m hard to explain.
Like how Yonkers is not upstate,
Belize is not Brazil; punta is not a bad word but a prayer
in a glass of whiskey For Mama Lu’s 96th birthday.
we watch as she wines her waist.
She can cure asthma with shark oil,
turn a bronx apartment into a Punta Gorda portal.
What if her and her sisters
Granny Tus, Mama Della, Aunt Melia, Aunt Maria, Aunt Met, Aunt Ket
were allowed to go to school? Who would make the corn tortilla?
Who would make the fry beans on a Monday morning,
create a secret kriol-broken Spanish
to talk about the grandchildren,
work as nannies, climb up 176th Street stairs
with big bags and small hands.

Xiomara sings and dances big rollers into my hair today.
Bachata this way. Silently
from under the dryer, head full of rollers.

Interviews. I reimagine this an invitation to celebrate me.
Mommy teaches me more then $35 is too much; ask for the dube.
Learn Spanish in college. Talk proper English.

When the lash lady and hairdresser feel safe enough.
This be out of my control, a silent cry
born from bloodwood sent downriver

Bleeding blues and purples.
How I always resemble someone’s cousin?
I’m reminded I’m hard to explain.

Belize is not Brazil. Punta is not a bad word but a prayer.
We watch as she wines her waist,
turn a bronx apartment into a Punta Gorda portal

Granny Tus, Mama Della, Aunt Melia, Aunt Maria, Aunt Met, Aunt Ket
Who would make the fry beans on a Monday morning.
to talk about the grandchildren

with big bags and small hands.

Xiomara sings and dances big rollers into my hair today.
Interviews, I reimagine this an invitation to celebrate me
When the lash lady and hairdresser feel safe enough.
Bleeding blues and purples.
Belize is not Brazil. Punta is not a bad word but a prayer,
Granny Tus, Mama Della, Aunt Melia, Aunt Maria, Aunt Met, Aunt Ket

PHYLISHA VILLANUEVA

Phylisha Villanueva is a spoken-word artist @phylishavillanueva, Belizean-American writer, author, educator, and advocate for community arts development, while serving as the second poet laureate of Westchester County. Born in the Bronx and raised in Yonkers, her work explores cultural storytelling themes. She currently runs The Yonkers Writing Group, plays with the Jazz and Poetry Choir Collective, and is almost done with her MFA in Poetry at Saint Francis College.

See interview here.