Buscando un árbol que me de sombra

By SAMUEL MIRANDA


In conversation with A Hill in the South Bronx, by Perla de Leon

Estoy buscando un árbol que me de sombra
Porque el que tengo me lo van a cortar
                                  Coro de bomba

This building stands,
the last tree to be cut down
in a garden of brick and steel
made desert of rubble and dust.

It still shelters families
whose poverty
bites into them like the rats
that chew holes into their cereal boxes
and gnaw at their toes.

It spits out children to play
on mattresses evicted by flame and smoke,
then swallows them back in
after streetlights remind mothers
to call for their return.

It provides shade
for the mangy dogs who scavenge
through the leftovers of the leftovers
and then wait below the window
of the woman who leans out
and, like a merenguero playing guiro,
scrapes her plates clean,
letting each drop of food fall within reach.

 

 

Samuel Miranda is a poet, teacher, and visual artist. He is originally from the Bronx, but has made his home in Washington, D.C. He is the author of Departure, a chapbook published by Central Square Press. His poetry has been published in print and online journals and anthologies and has been translated into Spanish.

[Purchase Issue 16 here]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Buscando un árbol que me de sombra

Related Posts

February 2026 Poetry Feature: Fatimah Asghar and Shane Moran

FATIMAH ASGHAR
i cursed the frog / that found its way into / my house. murderous, i laid / poison for the ants. i threw / my moon in the trash. / when he cheated, i wished / him a hall of mirrors. / doomed to endless versions / of him. i prayed they’d undo / each other. & they did. i took / from the earth without permission."

Mountain, Stone

LENA KHALAF TUFFAHA
Do not name your daughters Shaymaa, / courage will march them / into the bullet path of dictators. / Do not name them Sundus, / the garden of paradise calls out to its marigolds, / gathers its green leaves up in its embrace. / Do not name your children Malak or Raneem, / angels want the companionship

Book cover of suddenly we

Poems from suddenly we by Evie Shockley

EVIE SHOCKLEY
one vote begets another / if you make a habit of it. / my mother started taking me / to the polls with her when i / was seven :: small, thrilled / to step in the booth, pull / the drab curtain hush-shut / behind us, & flip the levers / beside each name she pointed / to, the Xs clicking into view. / there, she called the shots / make some noise.