¿Qué Quiere, Corazón?

Alexandra Lytton Regalado

Aquí tenemos lo que quiere, Corazón;
The market ladies touch my arm, Cielo,

Pase adelante. A tomato pulses in her palm.
My heart, my mother’s heart, still they argue.

If the phone calls, flowers & fruit I sent
In my stead could ever be enough. She said, Don’t come.

I didn’t argue. I shouldn’t have listened to my mother’s
Words, but the blade. How the scorpion tail of her voice

Speared its own pain. Every day, another flower
For the altar, the blanket of condolences. New Year’s,

After the call, I stayed in bed, Cielo, the sun could not
Shine without my mother. Pull the curtain.

The stage must be hidden from us. Terror
Of the spotlight & audience roar; she fell

To her knees on the white tile. Mirela, Corazón,
Her body collapsed on the tiles; I was not there

To press the crease of worry from her brow
As I’d done for my father. Cielo, how the unsaid

Presses down on our human bodies. I was not there.
She would’ve fallen through my hands. Knock it out

With reason, but the heart does not negotiate, there is only
El ir y venir, Corazón, el llevar y traer. Where was I as she felt

The burst in her chest, the memory ripe. Fireworks
Crack & singe, beating the black dome over a beach.

The rupture marks her final place, the broken white tile.
The pounding drives it in. Contra martillo y clavo, no ganas.

You cannot win an argument with a hammer & nail.

Copyright © 2025 by Alexandra Lytton Regalado. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 2, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

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about this poem

“This poem arises from the impossible choices immigrants face, torn between two worlds and the families we hold in each. Often, we must consider those tough decisions and juggle roles between mother, daughter, wife. We’ll always question our sacrifices—and what’s enough—a tug of war between reason and emotion. The loss of the mother can also reflect our loss of motherland. My mother died on New Year’s Eve in the U.S., and as I walked through a Salvadoran fruit market, lost in a loop of guilt and longing, I felt unworthy of the vendor’s sweet invitations. We’ll always be looking for our mothers.”
—Alexandra Lytton Regalado

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