The most critical news from a shattered Puerto Rico and its traumatized people is not getting out. People on the island are suffering and dying as I write this. We are witnessing a cover-up, with the help of most corporate media, of the U.S. government’s heartless negligent response to a humanitarian disaster.
Faces of Maria
Who in their right mind would name a hurricane María?
If Jesús is too sacred to touch, why send a deadly María?
As Boricuas die, our Commander and Chief Drone tweets,
plays golf, calls the begging Mayor of San Juan no María.
Abuelo, Don Manolo, an Independista until the end,
cut cane as a young man to marry sweet sixteen María.
Don’t substitute prayers for electricity, water, baby food,
give cash to slick crooked pastors and priests, Ave María.
In Don Pablo’s basement church, sacred African drums
conjured up my favorite Changó by statues of Virgin María.
Titi Lidia, the family’s rebel Santera, would introduce
old Abuela to the healing spirit Orichas, as our María.
We know this a man’s world, a white man’s world, a rich
white man’s world; I am an aging Nuyorican, loving María.
The trees, birds, little green coquís will come back in time,
fathers and mothers, with faith, will name their babies María.
*A version of this poem appeared in New Verse News.
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Until next time,