Cinnamon Girl Read online

  Your uncle who never forgets you,

  DJ Roberto

  Breathe a little whimper,

  read this letter

  over and over again:

  May 25, 01

  Dear Canela,

  I have an idea.

  Why don’t you come back to New York,

  all of you? We just got in from San Francisco.

  At last. Tía said, ya vayanse, can you believe it?

  She told us to get out. But I got her a visiting nurse.

  Look, the Lower East Side is about sixteen hours from

  Iowa, plus a skip and a mambo! Just a little apretao’ in the

  Everything Room. Maybe it’s time we all got back together,

  our tenement will be our islita. Please get back to me.

  Mucho love con () () ()

  Your uncle Beto, DJ

  P.S. You’ll help build my radio station up on the roof?

  RadioSabor FM, okay? And you can write poems there too.

  Bring that old cereal box you’ve been keeping since

  you were a little girl. Just you and nobody else.

  Hurry, write, call. Chéverechévere!

  My heart beats low-low and

  an icy sweat covers me. Sniff, sniff,

  Zako says if I take another hit

  I’ll feel more energy. Zako.

  Something in the pipe

  makes my eyes stay open forever.

  Nothing—my nose hurts. I fill my pockets

  with voicedust as Zako talks-talks. Got to save

  the voices. Got to carry them back

  to Ground Zero. My manda. It is my manda.

  Want to eat a whole

  row of soda crackers and a little white pan

  of cheese dip, root beer. Chew gum. Want to

  but can’t. Just can’t.

  My stomach feels tight

  and burns too. Heh, almost like salsa.

  Wipe my face.

  Like I see little wings with

  the sides of my open eyes. I snatch them,

  dust, feathers, mosquitos, heh-heh, mosquitos,

  white mosquitos, little armies that will lead me

  out upstairs. Heh. My back hurts kinda. Don’t

  know if it’s my back or my stomach or

  my heart. So empty,

  heh, the morning light spills on the stairs like milk.

  Sneak out.

  Crawl with Cicatríz. Wind

  cradle me. Wind-wind

  from all around the world.

  Out here now

  where everyone can hear, lissen—

  I notice the stars

  for the first time, chewing pieces of the sky.

  Can you hear them, Cicatríz?

  They are waiting for you.

  Notice the little songs of people

  moving quiet in the wee hours of the morning.

  Hear that, Cicatríz? They are all saying

  that you are the most beautiful girl in the world.

  They are saying they love you and that they

  will never forget you.

  A woman prays, see how she looks away

  and lowers her head inside a scarf and that man

  asleep while he’s holding a lunch bag.

  See that, Cicatríz? He has your favorite bacalaitos.

  Just you and me now, Cicatríz.

  Here, if I can’t have the crackers

  you can have them, here

  try a little cheese dip, wipe it off

  your nose after you finish, okeh,

  okeh, now, be careful, the mosquitos,

  and the feet, see those feet, watch

  them, they’re sneaky feet, don’t

  follow them, follow me, Cicatríz, come

  and remember, always, we can’t

  lose those little gray baggies, okeh,

  okeh, now, gonna put you back

  into your little apartment, right

  here in my backpack, here’s a little

  cookie, the last one, wish I had some,

  let’s go now, come, come

  and shhh . . . shhhhh don’t you say a word

  to anyone, until uncle DJ comes home,

  ready, okeh, okeh, let’s go, nobody’s

  gonna see me, they’re gonna think

  I am some kinda Mexican gypsy,

  Spanish, a Flamenco dancer, yeh-yeh,

  let’s go and catch up with Rezzy.

  Wait

  until the sun comes up. Wait

  by PS 1486. Pace back and forth,

  look mean into the street where

  a bicycle man floats by like an angel.

  10/5/01 Friday, PS 1486, Loisaida, on the way to Mrs. Camacho’s class

  hot pink note

  Let’s follow Rezzy

  to Mrs. Camacho’s class, heh.

  Look at her walk fast-fast

  up the stairs. Is she running away

  from us, Cicatríz? Or maybe,

  she thinks she sees me

  in the crowd, huh? Maybe,

  we should go home, I should

  wash the dishes, bet you the sink

  is so dirty, no one there, everyone

  at the hospital. Dunno.

  Uncle DJ

  can you hear me? Why don’t you

  say something? Why don’t you answer?

  There’s too much dust to clean.

  Uncle DJ?

  Even here in the janitor room

  by the brown mop and yellow

  plastic bucket there is too much dust.

  I am gonna pinch your nose, Cicatríz,

  so you won’t smell the ammonia,

  and plug your ears so you won’t

  hear all the dustvoices.

  The bell rings-rings

  and Rezzy passes me.

  Hey—

  drops me a hot pink note.

  Police come to class

  looking for you.

  Meet me tomorrow at five thirty.

  Sister Lopez’s Tarot Card Shoppe.

  Later.

  —Rezzy

  10/6/01 Saturday, nodding off on Avenue D, muggy afternoon

  my razor

  Come, Cicatríz,

  let’s hang by our old place.

  Get some fresh clothes,

  some cookies. We’re not

  going back until we save all

  the voices, remember. We made

  a manda. Shhhh, shhhh, up

  the stairs, second floor, third,

  okeh, okeh.

  Sniff, sniff, smells like

  pasteles, or maybe someone’s

  frying pork chops next door, mmmmm.

  Okeh, the door’s open, a little.

  Must be Papi, he’s always forgetting,

  huh, Cicatríz, are you listening to me?

  Tiptoe,

  tip-tip, tiptoe. Is that

  Papi leaning over the sink

  reading something by the light?

  It’s probably a Wanted Picture.

  You know, like on the milk carton,

  the little kids. You know I am not

  a little kid, Cicatríz, wonder what

  he’s reading.

  Better hide in the closet

  by my sofa-room, where tía Gladys

  keeps her work clothes. Let’s see.

  Wait, hear that?

  House made of sofrito

  So many moons and dreams

  Aguas Buenas, Cayey, Puerto Rico

  Papi and me dance outside

  How funny life seems.

  July 13, 01

  Papi’s reading one

  of my poems.

  What’s Papi reading now?

  Under the Flamboyan

  In my heart

  There is a little girl

  A flower from the start . . .

  Come to my arms, Canela

  Are you safe,

  Where are you sleeping?

  Wake up, wake up, nena,

 
I am so alone, weeping.

  Papi, Papi, heh.

  Is that your poem? I almost say

  through the crack in the door.

  Papi pops his arm

  and looks at his watch.

  I almost forgot, he whispers,

  they’re taking Beto off the ventilator thing

  to see if he can breathe on his own.

  Uncle DJ?

  Uncle DJ, wait. I am not ready.

  I, uh, uh, I, uh, I still need to save the voices.

  I want to come see you, but, I am not finished . . .

  don’t know . . .

  Papi dashes out without saying

  another word.

  What shall we do, Cicatríz?

  I switch on the light in the tiny closet.

  Check my miniature watch.

  Rezzy’s waiting for me, but

  I want to see uncle DJ too.

  Grab the zebra boa from Tía’s clothes rack

  and the blouse with circle mirrors.

  In every mirror

  there is a wavy pool

  with two dark sad eyes

  looking down.

  Meet Rezzy at Sister Lopez’s shoppe.

  No one there except

  Sister Lopez who’s sitting down

  petting her rough black cat, on

  the phone talkin’ in a low voice, something

  about Is he ok?

  Wonder where Rezzy is?

  Wonder what’s going on

  at the hospital? Where will I stay tonight?

  Zako’s still at the Palace or

  is he with RGB or Marietta?

  I don’t want to smoke that stuff, makes my head

  get wired and then I laugh out loud-loud

  and then I can’t close my eyes.

  It’s laced with some good stuff, Zako says.

  Gettin’ chopped keeps things smoooth.

  Sniff, sniff.

  Cicatríz pokes her nose through

  some butter-colored candles.

  Yolanda, did you save all the voices?

  A husky voice crackles.

  Where did you go lookin’, muchacha?

  Down the long white stairs in the night

  All the falling voices you will cure of fright

  You cannot show your face

  You cannot leave a trace

  Do this with all your heart and all your might

  And your uncle will rest in the highest place.

  Sister Lopez walks up to me slow-slow,

  she looks kinda smaller all of a sudden,

  with her arms out as if about to ask for rain

  from the rufeh, as if about to lift up

  an invisible tray of flowers to someone

  that just died, her virgensita almost hidden.

  She hugs me

  and presses her face against my shoulder.

  Rezan is not coming, Sister Lopez says, touching my face.

  She called, said they’re going back home to Kuwait.

  Someone gassed their store!

  Run-run, run,

  then I think of nothing.

  Drag

  slow

  to

  Royal Robes

  FDNY

  Ashes and smoke.

  A charred pile

  of steel hangers and smoke-spotted walls.

  More smoke and black soot figures.

  Torn half faces, clouds and

  a beehive of embers.

  A couple of strangers take a picture.

  Think of Iowa. Sky. Sky, can you hear me?

  Can you see me? When will this end?

  Rezzy glances at me from the crowd—

  she’s still wearing

  my black tights and denim jacket.

  We are not terrorists, uncle Rummi

  says, ducking the photographers, Now I go back

  to Kuwait, no business, no life here no more,

  Everything lost. All lost.

  Rezzy stares hard,

  takes off my jacket, drops it on the sidewalk,

  I almost disappear,

  like miles away and I touch her

  through the small window in the taxi

  and she touches me.

  Says something with her face against

  the glass, but uncle Rummi pulls her

  away.

  I stand

  alone again.

  She’s gone. Rezzy without light.

  Sky, where are you?

  Uncle DJ . . . can you hear me?

  Will you leave me too?

  Gone, all gone.

  Kick-kick away

  my old funky blue-black jacket.

  Rezzy, Rezzy, I say.

  Rez-zy—her name

  gets stuck

  in my throat.

  A razor. But it’s

  my razor.

  10/7/01 Sunday, alone on the rufeh, Loisaida, 3 am

  love congas

  Take a shot

  of Peppermint Schnapps,

  tuck the bottle from Shorty’s bodega

  in my backpack. Spit it back out.

  Cicatríz, better not lick this bottle

  bad for you, bad! Slouch down Avenue C

  back to my old building, look up at the third floor.

  Lights out. Cover my mouth and face with

  Mamá’s Hindu shirt. Rest the bottle down

  on the fire hydrant in front of the stoop.

  Sit.

  Climb the stairs.

  First floor, second floor, go to the rufeh.

  See the busted wires and the trash bags.

  RadioSabor in a heap of beer bottles

  and trash.

  Sing a little tune by J.Lo.

  Sit on a milk crate, sing a little tune.

  Gaze at the washed flat hot sky,

  crooked, shaky

  and empty in my chest.

  Rub my neck

  feel a wart by my vein.

  Pick a letter

  in my backpack, from my cereal box.

  Strike a match and read.

  June 3, 01

  My Canelita,

  I called and called you last night but your mom said

  you are not in the mood to talk to anyone. I am

  so sorry about your friend, Sky.

  Wish I could hug you mucho.

  When my papa died, en paz descanse, I didn’t

  know what hit me. I told myself, It’s like he just

  isn’t here anymore. Didn’t feel a thing, I was sixteen,

  three years older than you. The sheriff came to our

  apartamento at midnight, handed Mamá a letter and said, I

  am sorry. Didn’t even visit him in the hospital, I just didn’t,

  didn’t want to see him without legs, the diabetes had

  eaten him all up, when he passed I remembered his

  words, La vida es un sueño y los sueños sueños son.

  Can you read Spanish? Life is a dream and dreams are

  merely dreams. And, Canelita, I was always a dreamer.

  Loisaida is beautiful. It’s so good to be back home.

  Hearing from you will make it perfecto. Please call

  or write me, sooner.

  Your tío Beto, DJ

  P.S. Here’s a hug (). And three more ()()().

  They look like congas,

  Love Congas. ()()()()()

  Crush

  the letter into a spiked white carnation of nothing.

  Pick the letter

  I keep folded inside a little red silk pouch.

  June 13, 01

  Dear uncle Beto, DJ Beto

  Dunno. Words happen

  at strange times. This feels like a poem

  but it is full of lágrimas, tears.

  Sky said

  the winter nights in Iowa

  are the best in the world. Like electric

  moondust from heaven.

  We walked for about an hour

  north from West Liberty />
  away from the tiny houses and trailers

  and the one theater that wets the town with orange

  haloes on the streets and buildings. It was raining

  and everything was so bright and quiet, still

  and moving at the same time, like a video

  of torn clouds and blue stars, then I felt so alone

  running away from home, wanted to go back but

  Sky was laying on the highway looking up straight

  into the sparkles floating over us saying, “See that star,

  that’s mine, it’s the same shape as I am when I am

  dancing,” and Cheyenne told her that he bet

  she would chicken out before he would if

  a car came down the road, cuz, he was laying

  down too and I said, no seas gallina, Miguela,

  that was Sky’s real name, don’t be a chicken part

  I told her, then I did the same thing and we were

  like three floating wet dolls on a river but it was

  the asphalt on Highway 6 to Iowa City, a beer truck

  peeled a sharp turn out of a warehouse and rumbled

  toward us. Get up! I yelled but they were gigglin’

  and holding hands, slurpin’ Peppermint Schnapps,

  okeh, okeh, you win, Cheyenne said as he rolled

  fast to the side of the road. Sky, come on, but

  Sky was laughing and stumbling on her elbows,

  tell me you love me, she said,

  and—can’t

  write anymore, uncle DJ. I can’t even feel

  my hand write, or my heart beat.

  Canelita

  Scribble a poem with one eye open.

  this doesn’t need a title

  i want

  to see

  what is

  on the other side of the d u s t

  maybe

  that’s

  where

  all the dustvoices live.

  maybe that’s where uncle Beto

  and Sky wait for me.

  maybe

  i

  am the dust?

  Dust?

  Another word

  for scattered dreams

  in the streets.

  Today & forever

  Take another

  swig and spit-spit it out again. Then I guzzle it

  like cherry soda,

  spill it over my chin,

  down my pants and shoes.

  Cooool.

  10/8/01 Monday, on the rufeh, Loisaida, 11:30 pm

  drippy pizza

  Climb

  down

  drowsy

  the escape ladder and hang above by the kitchen

  window, where I used to live. Bet Mamá

  kneels by her little city of red candles. The razor

  in my throat cuts and burns at the same time.

  Hold the steel bars tight so I won’t fall.

  Tight-tight

  so I won’t feel a thing.

  Maybe if I stretch I can kick up