Melinda Palacio

Sinvergüenza Swagger

My sister drinks in Panamá, rubs
cinnamon colored sand on her cheeks,
dabs more mud on her face and we
walk deeper into the jungle.

Oblivious to venomous snakes, our chanclas
sink brown feet into pretty clay. We pull each other up,
lose ourselves in song and the wild. City girls free.

When a Ngöbe-Buglé, carrying a machete finds us, he asks
why my sister wears war paint. She is always ready
for battle, draws her rules in lipstick.

The answer to all questions lead to our isthmus hips,
our father’s sinvergüenza swagger.
We find pride in hips and lips everywhere.

Little girls wear their sisters’ tight blouses.
Grandmas and mamas serve up sensuality sweeter
than any ripe fruit, says the song blasting from every bus.

On our last day in Panamá, the taxi driver wants to take
my sister home, but remembers his hair-raising wife.
Sinvergüenza swagger.  He reminds us the conquistadors
staged the conquest of all the Americas from Panamá.

Panamá, curvy isthmus, dizzying land bridge, turn
too fast and you’ll lose North.  North is irrelevant
when you consider a city sacked and burned,
when a country sells out its own people for foreign dollars.

It took a trip to Panamá to understand my father’s sinvergüenza swagger,
sprung from volcan Baru, blessed by two oceans, bathed in sweat.
May he remember the smell of coconuts and sea salt from his prison cell.