Poetry, Lola Anaya
Part I: Harvested
I don’t want to write
About oppression anymore
I want to write about trees and geese—
The warmth of a sunrise in winter,
How it trembles the earth
Until we all stop and watch,
Bask
I wish I could be Mary Oliver or Dickinson
Or Wordsworth
And see daffodils as daffodils—
Exploration as mine to claim,
A path for me to walk
I want the sky and the dirt,
Every lake and all the rocks
A garden can offer
I want to think of these things
Without a plague looming—no, not that plague— The one that tells me
Go back to your country
On the subway,
Not knowing that I am from a place
Being harvested by this country,
That’s been harvested
Since 1898,
And that doesn’t begin to
Explain the 400 years prior
When They landed on Our beaches
And claimed the sand beneath their feet
What if I wanted the sand back?
But I can’t write about the
Sand, the forest, the rivers
Spilling into oceans
Polluted by destiny
And exploration—
I can’t write about it—
~
Part II: Backyard Tree
The wise oak wakes up
Alone
Each spring on some land
Marked by enclosure
Accompanied by manhandled landscaping—
Manicured lawns with
No clover to wish upon
The grass may wish to grow;
The tree? He wants a companion
To bask the blossoms of spring with
He doesn’t wish to be alone another season
He wonders if his mangled branches
Will ever be acceptable—
Will they compare to the dainty blades of grass
Holding gentle steps, blankets, sunbathers—
Or if he will always be a tree to stop
Walkers in their tracks
With his brooding height
The blades of grass wonder if they would get
Stepped on less if they were tall;
If they had large, unfathomable trunks
Holding them steady to earth,
Giving them distance from inconsiderate shoes
And children ripping them from the dirt
It worries them—how they walks like they own
The land
And when the Man comes to slice each blade down To an acceptable length, appropriate to step
Down upon, to mangle—
Must we always battle the scythe?
It lures us to give in, to enjoy this compliant fate While the tree watches from above,
As he, too, grows sturdy with unrest,
Until the next spring—
~
Part III: What It Means To Be Free
I can’t write about it
Until the next spring
I can’t write about it
Until representation has a real purpose
And I feel seen in who decides my future
I can’t write about the trees,
And the leaves,
The flowers,
Nor can I write about basking in the grass
Until I know that I am safe to do so
Holding hands with someone I love across
This country that raised me
Until being Puerto Rican isn’t an exotic
Fun fact
And while we’re talking about being Puerto Rican,
I can’t write about it freely
Until Domino Sugar
Gives Our island its flowers,
By which I mean reparations for the last
Century and counting
I am the wise oak,
All alone in someone’s backyard
On a colonial property
And I am blades of grass
Pulled from the dirt,
In fear of being stepped on
When I make an attempt
To grow—
Evolve
But I can’t do it,
I can’t write or change or stand sturdy in the dirt
Without centuries of pain on my shoulders
Holding me back; I can’t move on
Without crumbling an empire first.
Lola Anaya (they/them) is a Puerto Rican poet attending Smith College for English & Art History. They work with The Poetry Society of New York, Black Sunflowers Press, and Wave Books. Their poetry explores colonialism and nature imagery and attempts to deconstruct notions of convention. They have read their poetry at Spoonbill & Sugartown Books and will be featured at the New York City Poetry Festival this summer. When they are not writing, Lola is likely taking a walk, searching for flowers to press and collage with.