Vicente Fernández Gómez, was a Mexican singer, actor,
and film producer. Nicknamed “Chente”, “El Rey
de la Música Ranchera.” Vicente died December 12, 2021.
& even though fluency never fully blessed my mouth
my body still grieves for Chente
the memory of my young self translating his
heartbreak lyrics with the little Spanish that stayed
on the tongue as if to say we love you
despite your broken record mouth
we love you despite your mouth
that fumbles language like loose change
trying to catch the bus ride
home—home i remember, was family
stuffed in the living room like black
olives in a jar, with children on
the laps of mothers & couches breaking
their backs full of bodies all inching for
a piece of cushion to rest on—where windows stayed
open on christmas night for circulation & for hours
& hours Tía Stella turned Vicente up so loud
his voice became the anthem that morphed
every woman into a broken hearted teen
grabbing shots of tequila like the cold hands
of ex-lovers in unison screaming: volver volver
they’d shoot liquor down their throats
like goodbye letters to every man that left
after the fight with words & fists
after the rent or child support was never paid
before the other woman slammed the door shut
before a boy ever had the chance to break my reflection
i watch a room full of mothers shatter like mirrors.
i watch Don Julio held captive by my tías
trying to understand Chente’s lyrics & how his voice
could drive women to the edge of a cliff
like wind pushing their grief into the sea,
grief shaped like a bottle without the rescue message,
grief that sang out of the boombox like vibrating tears spilling
a heavy rain yet everything stayed dirt dry.
i now keep a bottle of good liquor in the cupboard
i sing the parts i can & reach for sorrow like an old friend
the one who never stayed & think back to my first love
who only spoke Spanish & sailed away because people
convinced us how impossible we were without language.
i can still hear my tías in the background: volver volver
come back, come back, like prayer they never prayed to god
or any man who would listen—but instead called out to summon
their flood of ache into a river of doves who would sing:
i want to live, i want to live, i am alive.
Contributor’s Notes
Karla Cordero is a Chicana poet, educator and a 2021 California Arts Council Established Artist Fellow. Her poetry collection, How To Pull Apart The Earth, is a San Diego Book Award winner and finalist for the International Latino Book Awards. Karla’s work has appeared on NPR, Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day, The Oprah Magazine, Split This Rock, The Breakbeat Poets Vol. 4 LatiNext Anthology, among other publications. She is the Executive Director for the non-profit art organization Glassless Minds and Professor at MiraCosta College and San Diego City College. Follow her @karlaflaka13 on Instagram or her website www.karlacordero.com
