this is the poem i read at his memorial service and called el morivivi. term will become apparent. el mo, ivivi. frank espada, 1930-2014. spat spanish means. i died. i lived. in puerto rico, the leaves of el morivivi close in the dark and open at first light. the fronds curl at a finger's touch and then unfurl again. my father, a mountain born of mountains, as tall as puerto rican and new york who scraped doorways, who could crack the walls with the rumble of his voice hipped on morivivi growing in his ribs, he would die and then live. my father spoke in the tongue of el morivivi, teaching me the parable of joe fleming who screwed his lit cigarette into the arms of a spics he caught flapping like fish. my father was a bony boy, the nerves in his back crushed by the coolant laced company and the load he lifted too many flights of stairs. three times he would meet to brawl for a crowd after school. the first time my father opened his eyes to grovel at the shoes of his enemy. the second time he rose and dug his arm up to the elbow in the monster's belly so ba