Hips Write History
The hips write history before the mouth opens.
A single swivel and the nineties crack open
like a coconut on concrete, milk and fire spilling
into every living room from San Juan to Seoul.
He was already dancing inside the machine—
Menudo’s bright uniform, teeth too white,
smile rehearsed until it became prophecy.
Then the shirt came off and the world
learned a new verb: to Ricky.
To Ricky is to refuse the small life.
To Ricky is to let the bass line fuck the spine
until shame forgets its own name.
Livin’ la vida loca—
not crazy, but uncontained,
a reggaeton heartbeat stitched
into the chest of every boy
who once lowered his eyes in church.
Now the stage is a cathedral of sweat and light.
He moves and the border dissolves
between body and anthem,
between the man they wanted
and the man who arrived,
hips first, truth second,
glitter everywhere.
Crown of Fire & Translation (una corona libera di sette frammenti, ogni “sonetto” ridotto a un respiro, che si incatenano come i movimenti di una coreografia)I.
He translates desire into muscle memory.
The body a dictionary no one burned.
II.
Puerto Rico in the throat, English in the hips—
code-switch mid-thrust,
the audience comes
before they understand the words.
III.
Came out like a chorus:
I am a fortunate homosexual man.
The sentence still vibrates
in the ribs of those who heard it live.
IV.
Father now. Two sons.
The same hands that once set the world on fire
now tie shoelaces with the patience of saints.
Still, the hips remember.
They always remember.
v.
King of the crossover,
he crossed more than charts—
he crossed the line we drew
between sacred and profane,
between silence and scream.
VI.
Listen: the reggaeton is prayer.
The sweat is holy water.
The grin is resurrection.
VII.
And when the lights go down
he keeps dancing in the dark,
a small fire
that refuses every language
that ever tried to name him
small.
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