Poetry by Stephanie Laterza

Carly Jane Casper CC




Más allá

 
How close 
they come to each other   
harina, arena
when grinding between fingertips
lard-lubed to make masa
whenever she decides 
whenever she needs
to make sense of anything 
before anyone wakes to ask her
for everything 
 
Abuelita did it so many times 
she had to have awoken 
on enough Sunday mornings
to fill a century and then six more
years with half spent with her belly full 
of one child after another 
because she had no counsel
other than the priests who told her to 
remember her obligation to her husband
who my mother said worshipped her like the Virgin
Mary whose heart was only sacred 
because it was surrounded 
by a crown of thorns, erect,
and carved of meat and bone,
it was said he couldn’t help himself so
she let him in at least
fifteen times. Thirteen survived 
and the priests said she should be grateful
 
even when years later she declared
what had happened to her was the real sin, every time 
having to carry another medicine ball for nine months
and to bite her tongue, spreading her chamber open to him
whenever he wanted, and especially when he apologized 
before entering and afterwards 
 
He let her have her Mass 
time to herself he explained 
to the brood on Sundays 
which they cited as proof
he was an indulgent husband and father
 
and afterwards she made masa
from harina like arena
rubbing it with lard until it came
together with saltwater, wrinkled like cortexes,
squeezing the mass between her fingers
before gathering it between her hands, then raising it in her honey
sun-flooded kitchen before molding half suns
filled with cheese and fork-pleated with uniform rays
crisped to golden perfection.


How much masa did she make after
she lost one she wanted
during the trial over her 
house when her husband’s brother demanded it, but lost.
But how many times must a woman testify
just to prove what’s hers
 
in my aunt’s cramped kitchen
in Sunnyside she showed me how
to make my own masa
and to listen to the contra tiempo
of my heart that would collapse so many times
till I learned, as she did, that the longer you live
the longer you lose. 
 
Tas, tas
 
mas, mas
 
no mas
 
y más 
 
allá






Everything (Pantoum)
 
Plenty folks would say my father didn’t teach me nothin’
I needed in a western world when what is west-
a destination driven by fear of stone-deaf fathers
charioting suns, all the while tempting crowned virions.
 
I needed in a western world when what is west-
the position of the fridge when he never drove,
charioting suns, all the while tempting crowned virions
to prove how road becomes metaphor on sale. He swore
 
the position of the fridge should stay west and he never drove.
Keeping it full of bread, milk, and cold canned fruit was everything,
not proving how road becomes metaphor on sale. He swore
raw garlic with lemon, salt rinses and boosters would keep me alive.
 
Keeping the fridge full of bread, milk, and cold canned fruit was everything.
Plenty folks would say my father didn’t teach me nothin’
but raw garlic with lemon, salt rinses and boosters keep me alive.
Plenty folks should know my father didn’t teach me nothing.





Stephanie Laterza is the author of poetry chapbook, The Psyche Trials (Finishing Line Press, 2019) and a SU-CASA 2018 award recipient from the Brooklyn Arts Council. Stephanie’s work has appeared in L'Éphémère Review, A Gathering of the Tribes, Newtown Literary, Literary Mama, The Nottingham Review, Akashic Books, Obra/Artifact, Latina Outsiders, Raising Mothers, and most recently in the anthology, I Wanna Be Loved By You: Poems on Marilyn Monroe (Milk and Cake Press, 2022).