By Lorraine Olaya
primera generación
when mamá told me
about the american dream,
I swallowed a bunch
of seeds with a spoon
then sank into the garden
brown skin blended into soil
hair strands into grass blades
arms molded into anthills
my stomach got lost,
drowned in the bedrock,
yet I feel it rattle with life
mamá said
no te estreses tanto, mija
there’s a lot of sun today
open your mouth and maybe
a tomato will pop out
but what will we even do with a tomato?
Ah, no sé
I grab onto white porcelain,
and throw up fruit punch
into the bowl.
The Creation of Arepas
In the beginning, granos de maíz
were scraped into the lime-salted ocean,
sunk into the warm foam,
among the white bubbles they bathed
until each became half-naked,
smoothened into soft shells, set to cool.
By morning,
they slipped off their dresses,
slid into the transparent
grinding solar system
where blades orbited
around and around and around,
until they became ground,
until these fine grains dried.
God saw it was P.A.N.,
and it was good.
Queso colombiano
sprung from beaches de harina
mantequilla-milk rained onto the mound
las olas los doblaron, los botaron, los amasaron
into each other like a potter with wet clay
las olas los sobaron, los masajearon, los mezclaron
with the patience of softening a rock.
Then, there was a tiktiktiktiktik
that set blue fire ablaze, heat rose
from the black budare-parilla earth,
turned these bolitas aplastadas
golden-brown-black. God saw
all that was made, and it was delicious.
And so, arepas were created in God’s own image.
Los bendijo y les pidió nietos
entonces some arepas wandered the mountains
others settled into pueblitos,
and in their beds hicieron caso
were flourful and multiplied,
appeasing the creatures
in all the bellies of the world.
How we prayed to our Arepa:
To bless us with amor y paciencia
To roll us into the dough
To welcome our souls
at the buttery gates
as angel-arepas
while our bodies
became no more
for flour we are,
and to flour we shall return.
Y las abuelitas
vuelven del servicio
con almas repletas
se quitan los zapatos,
dejan las bolsas
en la mesa del comedor
cubierto con plástico
pasan a la cocina
donde esculpen
círculos de harina
con sus dedos gordos
rellenándolos con quesito
dulcemente, poniéndolas
a calentar encima de la estufa
juntan sus manos arrugadas
ojos cerrados, manos alzadas
recitan la arepa nuestra
salen de la casa
con las arepitas
calentitas, deliciosas
bonitas, piadosas
(como dios las creó)
envueltas en papel
besan los cachetes
de los niños en la calle
y las colocan con ternura
en sus manitos pegajosás.
Lorraine Olaya is a Colombian-American writer, editor, and poet born and raised in Queens, New York. She received her B.A. in English and American Literature from New York University, where she also minored in Creative Writing and French. Often drawing inspiration from writers such as Gloria Muñoz, Rio Cortez, Sandra Cisneros, and Natalie Diaz, Lorraine’s work explores the experiences of the Latine diaspora, focusing on dual identity, culture, community, first-generation struggle, immigration, and familial love. In 2025, she was named a Brooklyn Poets Fellow. Her poetry has been previously published in Paloma Magazine, Drunken Boat Magazine, The Acentos Review, Esferas Undergraduate Journal, and elsewhere.