by Jianna Marie Cedeno
Until the day she died, my grandmother made café con leche
and avena every morning—sweet and creamy. a hint of bitterness.
She stirred until milk forgot it was milk,
until sugar disappeared into itself—
unbleached linen,
a vestige of our ancestors.
Under midday sun, sticky cane juice soaked
into raw palms and sweat cauterized the neck.
Matted hair pulled towards the ocean,
tender fingers scarred from rusted machetes,
callused hands grazed by rigid culms.
A Ponce native with a score-kept,
beaten back baptized to a god
who looked nothing like her.
Taíno gods swallowed by the cross
for Mary to wear Borikén’s ocean as a veil.
They said there is only one god.
A beaded rosary draped across her face
as a whip tangled inside her soft, pure earth.
Ripped, leathered flesh
bled molasses—
Shadowed prayers unheard by Diosa Luna
as mucus-coated, bared teeth shaped the stars—
the final glistening light.
Jianna Marie Cedeno is a Puerto Rican poet and essayist. She holds a BA in Creative Writing from the University of North Florida. Her work explores themes of identity, fragmentation, and displacement, while integrating historical contexts and cultural heritage. When not writing, she enjoys searching for shark teeth along Florida’s coast and spending hours laughing with her father.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 