Brandiron the Spaniards used 
to mark the african slaves



Y la senorita Miss Puerto Rico says: 
this island still burns 
with the mark of the carimbo. 
The mark of the carimbo reigns 
deeper than the skin. 
Who would know it by looking at me?



I The Suffering Ships Come


From Seville they came, their fists 
clutching licencias to seek gold. 
The suffering ships came to these shores 
on fruitless quests that planted the seeds.

Bozal, on your strong back 
they placed their asientos 
and said you were of poor spirit 
and little strength, but after they worked 
the Tainos to death, you worked their fields, 
our land, and harvested cane, filled 
our blood with sweet melao.


Before sunrise they woke you 
from the rags that served as a bed. 
They marched you to the fields, 
fed you food that today has become heritage: 
Sancocho, harina con habichuelas, 
surullos, vianda y bacalao. 
For you, the food of oppression. 
Tu pan de cada dia. 
You toiled under the sun and 
the ever present Juan Caliente, 
the whip with seven tongues 
that would not forgive even those 
who fell exhausted between canestalks.

To the rhythm of machete blows you took shots 
of ron cana to numb the pain, to forget 
the number of days since leaving home. 
With the women you worked 
and cursed in song the mayordomo, 
who squeezed life out of you, 
working you at a pace not fit for beasts.



II The Carimbo At Work

When the new ones came, 
hands caressed faces and shoulders. 
Those branded, feeling what they 
would never see in a mirror, 
scarred tissue on their bodies: 
The welcoming to the new world, 
a door to fading memories.

They got a few hours of rest 
to watch, to re-live again and again 
the carimbo do its work. 
Whether on the shoulder or face 
depended on the mayordomo's mood.

Pity the poor devil with defiant gaze. 
The young woman selected for his bed 
they stripped to the waist, 
fondling her breasts as hot metal 
came down on her back.

Forced to recall, grasping to forget, 
feeling what they would never see, 
burnt flesh filled their nostrils. 
The screams crowded the little space 
they occupied under the heavy sun. 
As rolling lisps bounced 
along waves of laughter 
and talk turned to mundane things, 
the one holding the brandiron 
marveled at how well black skin heals 
before bringing out the children.

At night the worm-like scar swelled 
and undulated across a shiny sea 
going nowhere, but even the breeze 
would not soothe its delirious pace.


III Ecco Mulatto

In the gallego's heart sang the moor 
when passion moved him there, 
to take what he thought he owned.

Asi nacio el mulatto 
En una coma de can"a 
Under a starlit canopy 
Balmy breeze for sheets

We do not call her Malinche, 
But mujer caribena, madre. 
Her scream a roar of survival 
crowning a people



connected to the sun. 
She started our pulse beating to clave. 
Fed us the milk that became cafe con leche. 
Filled our veins with strength, 
stuffed our tongues with the language of plena.

Asi nacio el mulatto, negrito,
En una cuna de cana,
Boricua


IV Coro


The mules march in fine line 
through the constant in-between. 
This mulatto nation that doesn't know 
where black ends and white begins. 
Living in the common ground too long 
they search for revealing signs 
in things they take for granted. 
Outing others from the race closet. 
Pointing to la taja they try to hide.

                                      La prueba del abanico 
Y to abuela donde esta?
	    			      If I listened to these folks
                                      Everyday be a bad-hair day 
         You say negrito means love, 
         but you say it only when 
         you order me around

                We don't need no stinkin' hyphen
                `cause we be livin' on the colorline


And the missi says: 
 			We don't talk about color, thank you 
			It's understood we all screwed up 
			But don't discuss it all the same.



Stop lookingfor blue eyes
In mine you will only find yourself
							Don't call me trigueno 
							Can't you see how 
							I dissolve into the night?

V Where are you going, Cimarron?

You escaped your amo, 
ran into the hills with armed men in pursuit. 
I am ashamed that your defiance has come to this. 
With Tono Chauboniel you proclaimed 
"more blood will flow than Haiti." 
You rebelled in haciendas, 
You rebelled in streets, 
you fought for freedom, 
your passion blinding you 
to Holstein's false promises.

You would run and run knowing 
all roads always led to water. 
And if they caught you 
el cepo would greet you, 
your wrists and neck locked for days, 
but you would rise again and run and run. 
But look around, see how your people 
wear their chains proudly and call them jewelry. 
Armed foreigners are called guests 
and the bombs that kill our people 
are branded accidents, our oppression 
proclaimed free association. 
I would tell you to stop your flight. 
Don't waste your time. 
Your descendents have deserted themselves 
to enslave each other
for the sake of MacDonald's and cupones. 
But your spirit must live. 
It must live like an ember 
to a man on a cold night, 
forever burning like Juan's cross 
lighting the way down the dark river.



VI Condembe



Adombe, ganga, monde

Let the condembe begin. 
Invite all my relatives 
European, African and Taino. 
Bomba and plena will play `til dawn. 
Nam-ham, Calalu y quimbambo, 
ondongo, anand, funche and gandinga. 
The feast unfolds 
and we all nourish our blackness.

Tutun de pasa y griferia
Pales and Laviera will be there. 
So will Campeche, Schomburg, 
Clemente and El Canario. 
Ruth Fernandez, Juan Boria, 
and Rafael Hernandez, too. 
El Gran Cocoroco will sing. 
La Gran Cocoroca will dance.

In Loiza the vejigantes rock 
to the rhythms of enkricamo. 
Let the music lift you 
from this island to the other 
where boricuas hip hop
to the tru cu tu 
tru cu tu 
pra pra pra 
boogaloo, 
calabo 
y bamboo. 
La sangre llama 
la llama sangra.

How this blood surges 
like a mighty river through our veins. 
It is Tembandumba's gift to us. 
Open the floodgates. 
Let it run, let it wash the streets. 
Let it drown babilongo. 
Put a fufu on those who 
deny the griferia in our hearts. 
Si no tiene dinga, tiene mandinga. 

Yoruba congas and bongoces move feet 
in Manhattan nightclubs, spill salsa 
onto sidewalks from boom boxes. 
They arouse tropical winds 
and melt frigid city air, 
as the coro calls us to respond 
to history in the colors 
of calabo, cafole, caoba.

Clave keeps us on a course 
as strong as Langston's rivers. 
We will pray for Ogun's protection, 
and let Yemaya bring us home.

So come with me 
into the night 
to free abuela, 
to let her take flight 
into the light of the dark. 
Come, listen to the bata. 
Surrender to the danza negra.