El Proyecto de la literatura puertorriqueña

1

Always, on a Saturday 

night, the floor is hard beneath me, the men are at my mercy,

and the music sweating and smiling and here. 

In the discoteca I spin, the wood rises and ripples
 

at my feet, amén. 

In the discoteca                     you

                      should be ashamed should be
                      ashamed should be ashamed

for calling unclean what God has called clean. Look at me: I am sexy.
Jesus raises his glass. The water rises at my feet and then, a cloud 

of prophecy, hovering. 

In the doorway, 

the doctor appears,

calls me in to test for psychosis.

2

On the waiting room TV, Horton Hears a Who.

He’s told he’s hearing voices. 

I saw spirits in my room after dancing salsa.

The writing instructor said it’s in your head.

When I danced—my skirt orbiting

my legs—the Spirits heard me. 

My mother heard and knew things. My great-grandmother too.

3

Halfway into the 10-minute live performance 

of “Sin Etiqueta” by Paulo FG, the music softens, 

the voices slow and stretch into smoke. 

I know worship when I feel it:

the Pentecostal praise break,

a cloud of light gospels from my body.

After, I search the words of worship that weren’t Spanish: Orishas. 

That night I dream that shells, shells and shells pour 

through the opening in my cupped palms. 

The dream tells me: this is divination and you have a choice 

to or not to practice. I started praying to Yemaya instead 

of Jesus. When the nightmares started and I woke to two 

large orbs spindling in my room, the woman in the writing workshop 

suggested they were protecting me from the nightmares

and the church people tell me I was worshipping 

demons, and when I dance, I also know that it is a safer kind 

of intimacy. 

4

Do
you even get     horny Pastor’s
wife says       you’re tainted
for wanting     sex Says
jezebel      Says those cult-
ural danc    es aren’t
of God. Says      you need a
demon cast     out.
 

The doctor says

Who do you hear?

             Do you believe

you have superpowers? God—
do you hear him? Does God give you 

superpowers? Who do you hear? 

What do the voices tell you?

Racist? If it’s a part of your culture,

then it’s not psychosis. And then God struck them both dead.

5

The light from the TV hums loudly, hums 

louder. The light stretches ‘cross the waiting 

room, stretches out the window, to my mother’s 

house, through my grandmother’s house, her mother’s,

to Puerto Rico, trying to escape 

it’s endless self, becomes itself faster. 

Bless the Lord! The therapist sent me to 

the psychosis center. I must have told 

her I hear God. My pills keep vigil from 

my bookshelf. There are so many. I would 

take them all at once, but my niece is six
and I braid her hair best. I am sick. Or, 

I’m blessed. 

6

The Spirit and I copa 

to the discoteca, they

tell me to prophesy to

raise the doctor and pastor.

I shimmied my chest and the 

women’s bones claved and came 

together but there was no
flesh so then I make my leg

latigazo and behold, 

flesh. The bodies had no breath,
so the Spirit says, ¡otra 

vez! so I spin and water 

rose through the floor boards, woke

the women but they had no 

rhythm. So, the Spirit tells

me to cry WEPA and the

women wail WEPA, press to-

gether, skin to skin, hip to
hip, whining their waists and step-

ping in count, light ushering 

in from behind them, like a 

sedative pushing through the

barrel of a syringe.