Concrete Poetry
   of Modern Love

 I
   inherited  nostalgia   from  my   father.  On  weekends in  Brooklyn, he   would    play    his   78  rpm  Ansonia  records, drink  beer and look
    forlorn. He’d  lose  himself  in    lyrics  about   “los jíbaros  de  las montañas,”  the    noble farmers
  of the   mountains. Humility  and     dreams
  would  float    through     the air  while    my    sisters and   I   rolled our   eyes; we  couldn’t  relate   to    music  about  Puerto Rico’s  countryside.    Once, I   came  home  to  my father     sitting
   on   the
  sofa,    his  records strewn  about, cracked   into   pieces. We never   asked;  he never explained. The fissures
  remain.  I
    long  to hear those  songs.  — Sonia    Pérez