FIVE POEMS by LETICIA PRIEBE ROCHA
Uncertain, Texas
is a town in Harrison County with a population of 86 people, noted
for its unusual name. The exact origins of the name are aptly uncertain,
though a popular version of events claims that when residents
were applying for township, they had not settled on a name and simply
wrote down Uncertain on the form, underestimating the force of
bureaucracy to set things in stone. Though the townspeople’s actions
may seem absurd in retrospect, I understand them. Every time the question
“Where are you from?” is posed, I ache to reply with Uncertain in lieu of
explaining that I have only lived in the temporary. Not in the existential,
everything is temporary sense, but in the literal, I grew up in many places,
all of which I haven’t seen in years and never will again sense. I have yet
to come up with an answer that doesn’t involve giving far too much
to satisfy curious strangers. I’ve gotten into the bad habit of collecting
other people’s hometowns, or more specifically, the fascinating
gems they harvest in all of that stillness. Like one of my friends
who lived his whole life in Indianapolis, or Indy, as he lovingly calls it,
and often talks about the wonders of being in a place where you can have
3 McDonald’s, 3 Wendy’s, 2 Taco Bells, 2 Arby’s, 2 Dairy Queens, a Burger King,
a Hardee’s (whatever that is), and a White Castle within 10 blocks of each other.
Or my friend from Phoenix, who can name all kinds of cacti and their blooms,
who adores being surrounded by mountains, trekking through them.
I used to call him crazy for hiking in the desert and he swore I would
love it when I visited. I did love it, truly, everything about the desert,
but I also know that I could fall in love with any place.
When I visited San Francisco for the first time, I was ready
to spend the rest of my life there. I felt the same in
Atlanta, in Orlando, and even in Detroit, both times,
first with my father and his now-wife, then years later
in a layover where I ate Qdoba for the first time.
My entire childhood I lived only in relative summer,
very different summers, oceans away from each other,
but still, summer. I am not accustomed to seasons even after
years in New England, mostly because it feels like since
moving out of perpetual summer, time has sped up. Like since
being propelled into seasons, time has been more intent
on not stopping, on bringing me along for the whiplash —
I could be uncertain anywhere.
Aubade with Elvis’s Last Performance of Unchained Melody
I am jostled awake by the dissonance
of my alarm, a particular sound
self-inflicted years ago that I refuse to change
as it does its job of rousing me. My blackout
curtains also maintain a stellar performance
of keeping out light, the nurturing darkness contributing to
the initial wave of rage entangled with confusion I always
experience upon awakening. It is quickly replaced
by the initial keys of Elvis’s last performance of Unchained Melody
Oh, my love, my darling This will be another morning
of a half-asleep internal self-serenade by way of song constantly
stuck in my head. I didn’t grow up listening
to Elvis, nor did I care much about him
as a person or performer before watching Baz Luhrmann’s
biopic. A movie so lackluster for a man whose
whole thing was luster, glow, bedazzle, pizzaz. I am immersed
in how much the movie pissed me off as the early morning light
shines through the kitchen window, casting shadows on the everything
bagel I gingerly prepare every morning I've hungered for your touch
A long, lonely time I have all of my grievances about the movie
all lined up to tell you about. First, that Austin Butler is sadly
void of any charisma and could never portray a man
that sent women into a frenzy. Here, you might defend Austin,
say that he is a good looking dude. And yes, I’d say, he is a beautiful man,
but he doesn’t have the throw-your-panties-at-him edge.
Still bumbling with sleep, I smile because you
would laugh at that and then nudge me to go on
with my objections. I grab the chive cream cheese.
Time goes by so slowly Perhaps the worst part of it all
was the choice to completely deviate from the subject
of the biopic who, like it or not, is cemented as a pop culture
icon forever, and instead center his manipulative manager
as narrator. You’d hate this too. And time can do so much
I pop the bagel in my mini toaster oven. The only good part of the movie
was the last three minutes where they end the soulless cash-grab
with clips of Elvis in real life, like his final performance of
Unchained Melody. Despite years of drug abuse, his physical breakdown,
and becoming an international punchline, he holds
every note beautifully, with a vocal presence commanding
respect, that through the sweat dripping from exertion he is still
Elvis Presley damn it, and as I chew my morning sustenance he
belts out, as though he knew for the last time,
with a desperation so visceral, enveloping me
Are you still mine?
A Matter of Time
You are an amalgamation of jigsaw pieces that don’t quite fit
together. You hate yourself for it. It’s palpable. I love you.
I dreamt once that you introduced me to your family in the desert,
more precisely, an amusement park in the desert. I only remember
the heat and children screaming from rollercoasters and your mother
declaring with enough certainty to jostle me awake: “He loves you,
he’s always loved you.” I thought the last poem I wrote was the last
poem I’d ever write about you. You look so much like your father and
I look so much like my mother. She told me once, tears in her eyes:
“People who love each other should never be apart. We weren’t built
for that.” Lately I’ve been taking great pleasure in opening up
my bedroom window and listening to the birds. I know nothing
about birds, their humming and whistling. I keep trying to feed
them the part of me that loves you. They haven’t taken it. Yet.
In Los Angeles, I Understood
Se cuida, my mom said before I entered Logan Airport.
Take care of yourself. It was an afternoon flight but I dozed
off. I woke up just as the mitten shaped mass of Michigan
was behind the tiny plane on my screen mapping the journey,
as if my body knew to sleep just long enough to evade
my father somewhere below, so he wouldn’t feel me overhead.
*
On the Santa Monica beach, I watched seagulls peck at every
littered artifact on the sand, their eyes overcome by the brief glow
of holding a lost thing in their beaks when they finally
managed to get a good grasp. A whimsical sight until their glow
was outshone by the devastation of finding their treasure
would not, could not feed them. I wrote your name on the sand
and watched it get swallowed up by the waves lapping at my feet.
*
At the LACMA, I was hit with the sudden realization
that the paintings that take my breath away are always held
by ornate frames equal in beauty to the masterpieces they carry.
Nothing had ever made more sense. Of course the brushstrokes
of genius would be tragically dimmed by a lesser frame. Of course.
I want to be held.
*
I lied. I didn’t write your name on the sand. I couldn’t
watch it disappear. I wrote my own name, saw myself fade
in an instant from this place. It was cloudy my whole trip,
cloudy even as the plane that would bring me home rose
away from your city and into the night. Staring out the window,
I ripped the light of us out of me, held it for a moment.
I gave it to the clouds, watched it float down the haze, down
to the ocean. As our light extinguished, the clouds gave way
to the red-orange glow of the Strawberry Moon.
In Lieu of Heartbreak, This is Like
Note: This poem was originally published online in a magazine that disappeared, Brave Voices Mag.when my wisdom
teeth erupted and
it was past time
to relieve my mouth
of their excess
I was thrilled
to get high
on nitrous oxide
but they needed
to drill into the bone
so no giggle gas
for me
count backwards
10, 9, 8, 7.....................
awake
and fear filled
with tears for hours
in the arms of my mother
inconsolable loss
of teeth of blood
of tears of memory
of pieces of me
Leticia Priebe Rocha (she/her) earned her bachelor’s from Tufts University, where she was awarded the 2020 Academy of American Poets University & College Poetry Prize. Born in São Paulo, Brazil, she immigrated to Miami, FL at the age of 9 and currently resides in the Greater Boston area. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Salamander, Rattle, Pigeon Pages, Protean Magazine, and elsewhere. For more information, visit her website: leticiaprieberocha.com.