When you tap the muscle memory of ​the blue tarp
Dorsía Smith Silva
​
​that was supposed to be a temporary roof,
but broke so you moved into the school shelter,
but stayed up all night because you were afraid
at how the men looked at you like something on
the sale rack and then some cousin of a cousin
said that you could come to New York on an
amnesty flight and your other cousin of a cousin
got you on board and you said, “This is it. I’m
home.” But home turned into where are you from
and where are your papers? I’m an American
citizen. I’m Puerto Rican. This ID looks fake to
me. Next. So, you are told that no one stays here
for free. And then you get a job paying minimum
wage, even though you know that you should be
paid more. And during your fifteen-minute break,
you stare at the lamp posts and pretend that they
are palm trees from your island. A tear falls and
someone says that there’s no time to cry. Besides,
tears are not meant for brown girls. You have to
get back to your shift because there are bills to pay
and you want that return ticket, which isn’t cheap.