Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa

Some Say the World Will End in ICE

“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ICE.”
Robert Frost

But my ancestors know better.
They live in the coils of my hair,
rest on the curvature of my hips,
and spread out across the width of my nose.

They lie in the taste of my lips,
weave through the rhythm of my words,
the melody of my language.
They are grounded in the tenacity of my resistance
and fuel my outrage.

They sit quietly, but resolutely, in the melanin of my skin.
They are the essence of me,
setting fire to the heat of my vitriol.

They mourn my losses, and rejoice in my recovery.
They are ingrained in my memory,
leave indelible marks on the landscape
of my yesterdays.

They were the dawn of me,
travel the noon of me,
and will welcome me home in the sunset of me.

Having traveled innumerable roads,
for unfathomable eons of time,
they point the way.
I only have to sit, listen, learn, and take aim,
for they are the plain folk, deadly silent in their resolve,

philosophers,
seamstresses,
healers,
dancers,
navigators,
farmers,
warriors,
needlewomen,
midwives.
weavers of words,
wielders of the sword,
mentors,
doulas,
mothers,
fathers,
griots,
celebrants,
lovers,
keepers of the flame,
leaders of the way,
holders of remembrances,
dancers on the horizon of yesterday,
swimmers of rough currents and gentle
streams,
awaiting renewal on the horizon.

Every day I wind their wisdom into the folds of my headwraps,
carry them in the tingle of my jewelry,
keep them at the ready
in the pocket of my soul.

No matter how much you rage, hate, accuse,
no matter how much you try to negate, beat, erase, shoot down,
attempt to silence Truth,
you will never win and
we will prevail,
for we are the weave and weft of this world.
We are rooted, indelible and aware.
Yes, woke, wise and at the ready
for what will assuredly come next
when you are dust
and we continue the journey into tomorrow.

You are not the be-all and end all.
And when you are long gone, you will forever be remembered
as the rotting scourge that came, showed your truly putrefying face,
and made us stronger.

I am a historical fiction writer. I write about the 19th and 20th century journey of the Afro-Puerto Rican people, in West Africa, Puerto Rico and the U.S. As I watch the brutality and lawlessness of the ICE private army of this regime, my words left me. I was unable to write narratives for over a year. My heart couldn’t stand the expansiveness of prose. Then something totally unexpected happened. When I finally picked up my pen again, what ended up on the page was verse, raw images, more manageable and truer to my current essential self than my lyrical prose. It was as though my feelings were too strong, too trauma-inducing and better expressed in the more concise images that hit the mark quickly and got out again before they burned through me. Here is my first poem in the Age of Ice. Considering the on-going struggle, I imagine it won’t be the last.