My skin is a tightrope
teetering, a tongue captive,
chains halting the steps
of my ghetto, a scythe,
a subway pole chafing
the larynx silent.
This skin, that weeps
wears crowns,
stolen—the mighty,
fallen to thirst.
Medieval cities drag
oceans, trail
pale venom
under tongue, a bull’s lisp
spills secrets of ancient
trampled bodies.
I bellow in sorrow.
Dig through the rut of
the hollow cavern of memory
—a sun without its shadow
carries reflection.
I am the return,
an excess of roots gulping
evaporated skies.
Triumph in death,
Yet, I discolor my tongue,
wipe the street off my face,
crumple my words,
like meaty chunks
in defeat—
language spat
bittersweet,
it is this, a life
reduced to teeth.
The roar in my belly,
a sonámbulo, numbed
by your indifference,
your assaults
against my cheek.
Demons fear this,
a child swinging machete
of chewy slop,
black with city grime
regifted in gold
and throne.
Think of me when you love.
Coquito sweet between lips,
rising from ashes
—a fat ass still-life awakening
the stale with slight,
a turned up nose drowning
in sour wine,
giving breath
to that death you call life.
Cynthia Roman Cabrera is a Dominican and Puerto Rican native Bronx, New Yorker. She writes poetry to explore identity, cityscape, ‘familismo’, and trauma. As someone who has lived in various marginalized communities, her art intersects themes of class, culture, and gender. Her experiences as a scholar, broke girl, comelona, reader, advocate, and queer person in love help shape and transform her work.
