Poems from Raices, Relics, and Other Ghosts (Kelsey Books, 2024)
To Heal Roots
Light spills onto pale cobblestone paths
and small store fronts painted sea foam green,
lilac, and salmon. Mangroves and las ceibas tangle
over top merchant carts. The eroded brick of El Morro
tells a story of times passed in waves.
Stepping past the cracked walls and faded murals
de la Iglesia de San Juan Bautista is a testament
to how time can’t destroy what people have
the knowledge to fix. I scoop up loose sand
and soil into my palms in search of the roots
Abuela left for me to find one day. I sink my fingers
deep into the ground looking for the laceration,
looking to link to the long-lost land calling my name.
I’m trying to piece my future together from fragments
buried in the past, but I wish there was some sort of doctor
who understood roots and how to join them.
———
Thistle I
Speaking Spanish should create an outpouring of warmth
to fill the empty spaces where Abuela should have been.
Where her lessons should have been. Where I could have
sat in her lap as she read to me in a language binding
our existences together. That world never existed.
Never would. Now, I’m an island of diaspora in the sea
of America where speaking Spanish is shame. Not for me.
Yet when Spanish leaves my lips, it scuffs and cuts
stumbling clumsily out of my mouth. This shame is a thistle,
the jagged edges of this weed leaving lacerations when uprooted.
Last fall, in Mexico, I was asked if I spoke Spanish four times.
By four different people. Each time, I said no. Your accent is good,
my cab driver called through the rearview mirror.
And still, I said no. The few phrases and verb conjugations
I could recall weren’t nearly enough to reply, Yeah,
I speak Spanish, without feeling like a liar. Actually being one.
Each no was a new thorn digging into my ribs,
the little spines piercing the parts of me too spineless
to keep my gaze up through the mistakes and mispronunciations
that show I’m growing. Amidst the background of car tires
bumping over cobblestones and hundreds of columns of tequila
rattling in their shelves, a clerk asked if I spoke Spanish,
his eyes shimmering with amusement or curiosity or hope.
I admitted my shame for the third time that day,
but instead of accepting my answer, he tested my Spanish.
His rapid words wormed into my ears, and my thoughts swam
as if my head was forced underwater, but I made out
the word entiendo. Irony is only understanding the word
understand in a sentence rooted in words and worlds
I’ve never understood and might never truly understand.
It’s a shame with roots so deep that trying to upheave
the pieces means some are inevitably missed.
Thistle grows where remnant roots lie, and shame
isn’t eradicated at once or over time or ever.
Pero siempre vale la pena intentar entenderlo.
———
Resolutions of a Poet as a Mixed Latina
At the end of este libro, I’d wanted to stand on a mountain
and pin its pages to the summit and scream, I’ve finally arrived!
But I haven’t, and I never will because I’ll always be learning,
practicando, growing into places where I want to take up space.
I’ll devote décadas pruning myself back when I’ve overstepped
or misunderstood yet another facet of mi vida en latinidad.
I’ll stumble and stutter para siempre, but I won’t waste
another second closing myself up or closing out unstable español
or ignoring painful thoughts when they wonder
about being Boricua and what happened to mi familia
that crushed our connection to la isla and each other.
Mi vida in diaspora will be never-ending, a link of DNA—
lifetimes of ache and mistakes without concrete answers
or reasons why—all held together by last name,
hearing, and healing, so it no longer hurts to hold,
so la próxima generación will want to hang on to whatever’s left.
Raised in the Pacific Northwest, S. Salazar has always felt at home in the mountains. As an educator, she strives to show others that success is not determined by one’s background. Her work has appeared in Harpur Palate, The Acentos Review, Booth Journal, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. Her writing explores generational trauma, identity, Latinx heritage, diaspora, and mental health. Raíces, Relics, and Other Ghosts is her debut poetry collection. When she is not writing, she can often be found hiking with loved ones, talking to her parrot, Gizmo, or delighting in every dog she encounters.
