papi sabe más que yo 

Tus manos are lined with rivers.
veins make mountains and valleys
out of your brown skin, wrinkles
like the sand of la Guajira 
joints are creased bark, palma de cera 

and if I look close enough, maybe I’ll see
a little finca nestled between mountains
with tiny cows, some chickens too,
teeny tomatoes, coffee mugs, dirty shoes 

a little porch where you, mi viejito, can sit
while I lay my head on your lap,
you can pat my hair and tell me stories
using the lines on your skin 

has vivido más que yo
entonces cuéntame otra vez 

how the galaxy once filled the sky above you,
stranded in a sea of sand and cardón guajiro 

the towers crumbled to dust two blocks away
from where you worked, y te quedaste mirando 

everything you and mami owned is still in New Jersey
so no se puede confiar en nadie, not even family 

diste gracias a mi abuelito before getting the call,
wiping tears, you went back to installing wires 

cartas de renuncia landed on too many desks
where you weren’t valued because no te peges a nada 

so tell me again
y aunque creo que ya escuché todo,
que ya estás repitiendo la historia,
por favor, cuéntame otra vez