Today's poem is by Dimitri Reyes

Made in América
       

I thought they would be of real
madera, the kinds with splinters.

That this item from its birthplace
across an ocean would come with

an authentic flag carved into the handle
as if sliced from a tree—

each instrument cured
by the scent of café con leche.

I look at this USPS box as if to ask
why you aren't wrapped in enough tape

to waterproof yourself
because you've traveled oceans

like a message in a bottle—
no certificate of authenticity.

Instead this maraca was made
by hands who've pulsed to the pace

of manufacturing novelty músicas.
Enough to afford a jíbaro hat.

Enough for endless chicken feed to cast
the way it's depicted on that one mural

in that one legitimate Puerto Rican restaurant.
I can only blame

the Bermuda Triangle for this etched-in
plastic. My instrument will shake

with the sound of an Anglo-percussionist
caricature. My American

a poquito-poquito-suave-suavecito
fabrication that silica gel packets can't hide

behind maracas or mouth.
I will not be taken seriously

during Hispanic Heritage Month,
even when the pain of my flag

begins to crown the crackle
of heavy tongue through teeth.

Copyright © 2024 Dimitri Reyes All rights reserved
from Papi Pichón
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Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission