An American Heart Stew
2005-10-01
With the sharp knifeof repression and exile,
cut into bite-size pieces
one pound of heart,
bred and raised in green pastures
vast as the ocean.
Submerge heart completely in a brine
of South American dictators and sycophants,
Spanish and British colonizers,
French cultural occupiers
and conceited agents
of American say-so corporations.
Add to the brine
a pinch of Latin salsa and
a pinch of Bossa Nova
(Jobin and Gilberto, if available),
1/4 teaspoon of boleros with shamelessly romantic lyrics,
1/4 teaspoon of American love and folk songs,
and a cupful of tangos,
weeping from the strings of a guitar
or from the sorrowful bellows
of Piazzola's bandoneon.
Add to the pot a generous serving of
Mozart and Bach piano or cello sonatas,
a fistful of Coleman Hawkins saxophone pieces,
blown from the bottom of his heart to the bottom of yours,
and a teaspoon of Billy Holiday's voice,
moaning the complaint of women everywhere.
In a separate bowl, blend together
words of Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
Jorge Luis Borges, Pablo Neruda,
Umberto Eco, Italo Calvino,
Shakespeare, John Steinbeck,
Marguerite Yoursenar, Jean Paul Sartre,
Marx , Lenin and Thoreau,
Don Quixote, Beowulf, and Martin Fierro,
throw in a dash of Rembrandt's quiet parlors
and of Van Gogh's darkest Arles nights,
and add mixture to the brine.
Incorporate one tablespoon each of
existential angst, Catholic shame, aristocratic guilt,
and the seeds of alienation and nostalgia
of an immigrant woman, including
her half of this and her half of that,
and peels from the melancholy and sorrow
that may be found attached to what she left behind,
and fill the container to the rim
with a blend of First World self-deception
and Third World abandonment and despair.
Finally, bring in one tightly packed scoop
of undying innocence and hope
and two scoops of a very ripe soul
bursting with life and love, in spite of it all.
Add salt and pepper to taste
(and a pinch of sarcasm, if you wish).
Cover tightly
and let stand for 65 years,
stirring occasionally.
© 2024, Marilyn Arana Cazon