Yolanda Perez 29 Poem by Robert Matte Jr.

Domestic

I am from Guatemala.
My husband Hernando
was killed by death squads
El diablo se levantó del infierno.
I am in this country as a political
refugee. My children are still
in Guatemala with my sister
Sophia. It is hard getting them
to America, but I cannot give
up. So many documents to have
el tiempo parece una eternidad.
I work for three ladies. Once
a week I go to their houses.
I clean. I do laundry. Sometimes
I cook food from my country
Las recetas de la patria.
Two of my ladies are good
to me. We talk about our lives
they give me bus fare and lunch.
The third lady is not so kind.
She treats me like a sirviente
ask me to do too much for the
money I am given. But I must
work to send money home.
Perhaps I will find a new lady
that is kind and a better person
una mujer con un corazón amable.

On Fridays I go to the cathedral
I clean the rooms of Father Molina
and also the holy santuario. I ask
no money for this. God's house
must be cleaned just as Jesús Christo
washed the feet of the disciples.
Father Molina hears my prayers. He
says that God will protect my children.
I think of when Hernando and I were
first married. We would go to the lake,
Lago de Izabal, on Saturdays. We would
watch the spider monkeys and the bright
colored parrots. We were very happy but
this life takes many turns. I laugh and cry
at the same time. What more can be done?
Todo en la vida es la voluntad de Dios.