Alba Delia Hernández
Milk in the Time of Quarantine
My eight-year-old daughter cries
because the teacher
does not call on her.
My daughter cannot unmute,
her tears lost in a bad connection.
My husband is angry
that he cannot walk
through the apartment without being watched
by that school.
You are going to learn to read and write
by any means necessary,
I tell my children.
My eight-year-old son
tears my yoga bolster with a steak knife.
I look around to see if I can find something
to break that would break
my son’s heart.
I run away.
I say,
to run an errand, to get milk.
I run and hide on the roof
where I listen to Ralphy Leavitt’s salsa,
Hay que vivir la vida siempre alegre...
There was no milk in the corner store, I lie to my husband.
I had to walk thirty blocks
to the next open store.
My mask
helps me to be a confident liar.
My son cries and tells
me that if he were in school
me and him would not
be fighting so much.
That he’d much prefer to play
with his friends
than to be with us every day.
I would prefer
to be alone on
my roof
without a mask.
My feet dirty from
the head-crushing
stomps of this salsa,
Ay le lo lai…
When you are stuck inside
with someone that you love,
maybe
but do not like anymore,
you are in a prison.
The curses meant to
scare you till you
spill
milk all over the floor.
And I say oh my god, I’m sorry, I’ll go to
the nearest store to buy more.
This time the line to get into the supermarket
rounds around the four corners of a block.
I tiptoe up the three staircases to the roof.
That damn dog on the third floor
always hears the creaks
and barks.
When I am questioned as to why I took so long,
I snuggle my lips inside my mask. I chew my words in practice.
The line was ten blocks long/
There were old ladies barely able to stand up/
I heard people coughing/
Someone came out and yelled/
Go back home no more milk here or paper toilet/
I had to walk to Bushwick Ave/
But here, here’s the milk, I braved it/ And got it.
Turn that damn music off –
Got me sick you hearing that shit all day, my husband says to me.
Don’t you dare talk about my music, I rev up.
Stop fighting, my daughter yells.
The whole school
can hear you.
You shut up, my son yells back at his sister.
We are suffocating in this small railroad apartment
24-seven.
If it weren’t for gravity
I think I would have lost everything by now.
Walking around to the nearest supermarket
I notice the
ugly middle finger buildings
being built on the head of our ancestors.
My days on my roof are limited.
I’m the warrior that dances even when
the jackhammer threatens and the torches are visible.
All I hear is
Le lo lai
Le lo lai
Aqui viene le lo lai
Le lo le lo le lo lai
Aqui viene le lo lai
I hold my son
who sobs behind the couch.
I hate COVID I hate COVID.
I would have been playing tag.
I would have been in recess right now.
I’m sorry I broke your bolster,
Mami, I was just so mad.
If only I could
pour
libations from my breasts
to feed my children.
Ay le lo lai
Le lo lai
Siempre alegre
Alba Delia Hernández is a writer, inspired by Puerto Rico, growing up in Bushwick, and salsa, who dances in the hybrid forms of fiction and poetry. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree from Columbia University. Her writing was highly commended in the Poetry Project series ‘House Party,’ Like Light (Bright Hill Press), Calabash (A Journal of Caribbean and Arts and Letters). and most recently in Harvard’s Latinx Publication: PALABRITAS. She received the Bronx Council of the Arts First Chapter Award and Columbia University’s Award for Outstanding Achievement in Literature Writing. She’s read at el Museo del Barrio, Nuyorican Poets Café and La Respuesta in Puerto Rico. She’s a passionate yoga teacher, salsa dancer, and videographer who recites speeches by Puerto Rican revolutionaries or moves to songs of resistance. Currently, she teaches creative writing to students across New York City public schools with Teachers & Writers Collaborative and other organizations.