BIO
Alexandra Peñaloza Alessandri is a Colombian-American poet, children’s author, and professor at Broward College, where she teaches composition, creative writing, and U.S. Hispanic/Latino Literature. She received her BA and MA degrees in English Literature from FIU and a Certificate of Fiction from UCLA Extension. Her poetry has appeared in Vox. She lives in South Florida with her husband and son, dreaming of Colombia. For more about Alexandra, visit http://apalessandri.wordpress.com.
When You Died: An Abecedarian
Already your skin has cooled, taken on a
bluish hue, like that time your grandson
choked on Dots candy—only he lived, while you
died. I refuse to stare at your face,
even though perhaps I should, lest I
forget your eyes, small and dark like the
glow of night. Did you know I could
hear your labored breathing slowing
in the room with the white walls, while wires
jumbled in undecipherable mazes,
keeping track of how much
life was left inside you?
Mami stayed while I went home to rest,
numbness settling around me because
Oh, ¡Dios mío! After so many years of almost dying,
Papi, after so many times of you saying,
Quiero morirme, here you were in a hospital
room, an internal hemorrhage spreading hot,
sticky blood through your brain. I still remember being
tethered to sleep and receiving Mami’s call, her voice
urgent, lingering a step behind hysteria:
Ven rápido. Está muriendo. And then again, amidst sobs, Murió.
When I stumbled back into the sterility of the hospital, I saw your
xanthous skin losing what little life remained in your veins.
Your weathered hands lay still, no longer twitching, and you? Probably
zooming across the heavens, finally free.
Conversaciones With my Late Father
No one notices when my father
ambles into the café with a slow,
steady gait, much like he did
when I was seven on our walks
to school. He’s no longer in a
wheelchair, his missing limb a ghost
within the space of his pant leg.
Now, he slips into a seat facing me
and smiles, his cigarillo dangling from his lips.
Hola querido, I say.
Mija, says he.
It’s been eight years too long.
There’s so much I want to ask.
Where are you now—heaven or hell
or in some version of purgatory?
How do you feel? Is the pain gone?
Do you see Mamá Adela or Papá Roberto?
How about my tíos and tía? I’m sure
my primos would want to know.
Instead I settle on the mundane:
¿Cómo estás?
Papi throws his head back,
laughing a carcajada
full and rich and never ending.
His teeth are solid, white—not
the yellowed dentures I remember.
His round face holds an unfamiliar peace
There’s nothing to fear in the crinkling
of his eyes. Is this the same father
who spurred the wrath
of his adolescent daughter?
Bien, muy bien, he says. Pero cuéntame. ¿Y tu salúd?
I shrug. Ahí. Could be better.
I want to say, I understand now, Papi.
Those headaches and body aches, how they
tapped at your nerves until you couldn’t stand it
and then you’d snap, scattering broken glass and
ceramic shards over our linoleum floors.
How any noise and disobedience on my part
would send you spiraling toward an anger
you couldn’t control. I, too, have felt the
hum of fear and anguish at losing myself
to disease, but I’m trying to be better,
to reign in my emotions before they break
my son. Like you broke me. But I understand
the ineptitude that overwhelmed you
at not even being able to provide for your family,
relying on disability and cracked dreams.
But I don’t say anything. Instead, I settle
on sitting across a man I barely knew, sipping a
café con leche, while everyone around us
eats and laughs and moves on,
oblivious to our silent conversation.