and gave a hissing squeal.
Opossum bared his pointed teeth,
and curled his agile tail:
A growl began deep in his chest
soon rising to a wail.
The tomcat pounced and batted hard
with two soft-padded paws.
What made his enemy retreat
were those sharp, dirty claws.
The cat moved in to sink its teeth
below that wedge-shaped head.
But old Tlacuache reeled in pain
and promptly just dropped dead.
The back door opened, lights came on.
The tomcat’s owner called.
Reluctantly, it strolled away
from where the corpse lay sprawled.
But once the night was dark again,
that big opossum moved.
With nimble hands and agile tail,
he searched the trash for food.
That’s why this mighty ‘possum
is so hard to combat:
For even with his puny brain,
he’s smarter than a cat.
PLAYOFF GAME
All pumped, we board the spirit bus—
my sister’s team has made the cut!
Now nearly our entire town
is heading north. We’re playoff bound!
We fill the stands around the court
and cheer the girls as they transport
that ball with skill right toward the hoop—
a leap, a swoosh, we stand and whoop!
Before too long we’re in the lead.
The other fans now boo and scream
and then a sickening chant commences
horrible words that beat at our senses.
“Go back, wetbacks! Build that wall!”
Adults and teens begin to call.
A sea of white faces, twisting in rage
like all the brown bodies are there to invade.
Teresa my sister stops dead in her tracks.
We’re shocked as well at this ugly attack.
We’re Americans too! This just isn’t right.
My friends and I are raring to fight.
The coach asks for calm and calls a time-out:
The team huddles close, then breaks with a shout!
Heads held high, they struggle to win
despite all the hatred, despite all the din.
We fans wave banners and chant our cheers.
Together we swallow disgust and fears
to urge those ladies to sweet victory,
a game to add to our town’s history.
When all is over, the other team’s coach
asks our forgiveness in front of the crowd.
Security clears us a path to our vehicles
and we march off together, proud and unbeatable.
“Next up: state champs!” We chant on the bus,
convinced that once more we’ll be victorious.
If not, no worries, it’s the team’s finest hour—
we’ll put this win on our town’s water tower.
SPANISH BIRDS
Everyone I know
speaks a different Spanish:
The rural twang of border folk,
the big-city patter of immigrants,
the shifting mix of Tex-Mex.
Sometimes we laugh
at each other;
sometimes we just listen
in awe at the sweet sounds
that leave our lips
like birds taking flight.
Mom’s Spanish flits around
like a hummingbird—
a fast and frantic blur of color
delicate dancing perfection.
Dad’s is like a swan—
ugly and awkward at first,
but growing into something beautiful,
comfortable in both water and air.
Delgado’s Dominican accent
reminds me of flamingos—
stepping high to avoid every “s,”
beaks making each “r” liquid.
Handy’s Spanglish is like an ostrich—
flightless and a little clumsy,
yet still pretty powerful
and fast when it gets going.
I hear the echo of their calls
when I speak.
My own tongue
is an aviary.
MIS OTROS ABUELOS
Once every couple of months or so
and most spring breaks as well,
we leave Puchi at the ranch:
My parents pack our bags
and we take a bus
to Monterrey,
Nuevo León,
México.
Get out
at the bridge,
walk through inspection.
Then an hour later, at the garita,
agents and soldiers come on board—
they never ask for our papers though.
I guess we look Mexican enough for them.
Me and my brother nap almost all the way,
till our sister nudges us awake.
We’re close to the city—
the mountains
are looming.
Mom’s parents,
mis otros abuelos,
are always waiting at the station,
and they squeeze us with papacho hugs.
There’s a room set up for us at their house
and all our favorite food, prepared
by Mamá Toñita’s expert hands.
She makes limonada,
hands me glorias
when no one’s
looking.
Then,
after we’ve eaten,
Tata Moncho takes us boys
on some adventure with our primos,
to a park or waterfall, some outdoor stuff.
We play and joke about Arturo’s pocho Spanish.
Every day there’s something to do in Monterrey.
It’s a big, sprawling city with lots of history.
It’s also part of me. When we leave,
me siento recargado de cultura
more Mexican, I suppose,
with the gentle kisses
of my other abuelos
on my forehead
like lucky charms
against all
harm.
WEDDING IN MONTERREY
My mom’s sister Pilar
is getting married.
We’re gathered
in a chapel
in Apodaca
right outside
Monterrey,
dressed formal
for just this once
as the priest intones
such serious words.
Vows exchanged,
rings fitted tight,
the novios kneel
on little pillows
and get lassoed
with lazos of love.
Then caravan
to a reception hall
for the real draw—
la pachanga.
Bottles and fancy
centerpieces
at each table,
cake towering.
My cousins and I
play outside till
the food is served.
Then I stay in my seat
to watch my aunt
and new uncle dance
El Vals de Novios,
which isn’t a waltz
but is beautiful
all the same.
¡Se abre la pista!
Couples young
and old get up,
moving to the rhythm
of cumbias.
After a bit
everyone halts
and lifts a glass
¡Brindis!
Cake is shared,
bouquet thrown,
then the men
heft the groom
into the air—
¡Muertito!—
while a funeral ma
rch
marks the passing
of his bachelorhood.
Everyone laughs,
la fiesta sigue,
till the newlyweds
drive away
and the guests head home,
admiring the recuerdos
we each get
to keep.
LOSING PUCHI
Pregnant with me, Mom was watering plants
when a scrawny puppy crawled its way
to her feet and just lay there,
like it was surrendering at last.
She nursed it back to health,
named it Puchi.
From the moment I got home as a baby,
Puchi was there. She was a good dog,
guarding me day and night.
When I learned to walk,
it was with my hand on her head
as she guided my steps.
I grew. She grew faster, more mature
and cautious, but always eager to play.
Together we explored el barrio
y el monte, walking all the way down
to the resaca and back again,
a boy and his best friend.
Puchi was loyal to my family and fierce,
ready to protect us, no matter what.
Once my mom pulled into the driveway,
started to get out of her truck—
but there, snarling and angry,
was the neighbors’ pit bull,
escaped from its yard.
Mom screamed in fear, slamming the door!
Then, her teeth bared in a growl,
Puchi came dashing from behind the house!
WHAM! She collided with the other dog,
clamped her jaws around his thick neck,
wrestled him to the ground,
and held him there till my mom
could get Mr. Rivera,
the pit bull’s owner.
Yeah, Puchi was something else.
She was magnificent.
She was.
Was.
Her brown muzzle was showing white
when I entered middle school,
but I figured we still had many years.
I prayed each night that she be safe
that I make it to college before the end.
Maybe adulthood
would keep my heart
from breaking.
But I walked home one afternoon
and saw blood
in a strange spiral
around our home.
My gut twisted.
Dropping my books,
I rushed to the back yard
and found her
lying beneath a mesquite tree,
her face peaceful
as if in sleep.
Later, as we stood over her grave,
my hands and heart aching,
tears streaming down my face,
I told my dad, “She circled the house
three times before she died. Ah, Puchi,
your last thought was to keep us safe.”
Even now
months later
I miss my dog.
I miss my friend.
Good girl, Puchi.
Good girl.
WHEELS
Tío Dan loves his lowrider—
candy apple red and mint green,
thirteen-inch whitewalls, wire-spoke rims,
it dominates car shows.
Uncle Joe drives his pickup truck
all over his ranch, hauling hay
and fenceposts and sometimes a calf.
He can’t work without it.
Mom prefers her compact sedan,
great gas mileage, low emissions,
just enough room for her three kids—
our dad can squeeze in too.
Mimi has her black Oldsmobile.
“Like a hearse,” she morbidly jokes.
It’s ancient, yes, but with few miles—
to church and back, that’s all.
Their wheels all fit them to a tee…
I wonder what my car will be.
My sister laughs. “You’re such a nerd—
you’ll go for a hybrid!”
CARNE ASADA
It’s a ritual—
Dad sends me out to collect
twigs and small branches.
He arranges them
over balled-up newspaper,
adds mesquite charcoal,
and lights the newspaper’s edge.
With a little wind,
it’s blazing hot in seconds.
When the heat’s just right,
we clean the grill with onion.
Mom brings out the meat—
fajita and loaded ribs.
Dad opens a beer,
sips and douses rebel flames.
We put on some jams,
sometimes relatives arrive
bringing drinks on ice,
wolfing down quesadillas.
Happy fellowship
fills the air with smoke and laughs.
Inside, Mom and Sis
and whoever else is there
make guacamole,
potato salad and beans,
along with spicy pico.
The table is set,
all the sizzling meat
and lip-smacking sides
are piled high
there in the middle.
Smiling, I say a quick grace,
then everybody digs in.
FATHER’S DAY
Not embarrassed to say
that I love my dad.
Always have.
He’s kind of my hero.
Mom says that when I saw him
for the first time
as a baby,
I reached my little hand up
and motioned him closer
with my wrinkled fingers.
My first word
was “papá.”
When I started walking,
he would take me with him
Saturday mornings
to have an early breakfast
in town or across the border.
When we’d come home,
I’d walk through the door
by his side,
all proud and serious,
and Mom would smile,
whispering, “Mis dos hombres.”
He has taught me so much,
shared the comics he collected
when he was a boy,
showed me how to hammer a nail,
treat others with dignity,
be a man.
So when the third Saturday
of June rolls around,
I don’t just get him a silly tie
or some other thoughtless gift—
I plan a day of Dad activities!
His favorite action films,
those spicy enmoladas
that he loves to eat,
a woodworking project
that we can do together,
tickets to some game
that I’ll sit through,
cheering when he cheers,
just to make him as happy
as he makes me.
This year, when we come home from the fun,
exhausted, he hugs me and thanks me
before heading to spend time
with Teresa and Arturo.
(Their gifts are never quite as good,
but he’s their dad too.)
In my room, I pick up my phone
(I left it behind
so I wouldn’t be distracted),
and there are five missed calls
from Bobby Delgado.
My chest hurts a little,
looking at his name
on that screen.
I know why he’s called.
Father’s Day is hard on him,
means something very different,
something cruel.
Four ye
ars ago,
Delgado’s dad kissed him goodbye
in the early morning hours.
He was a truck driver, Mr. Delgado.
Said he’d be back in a couple of days.
But he never returned.
The days stretched into weeks.
Delgado’s mother grew desperate,
called police,
hospitals,
her husband’s boss.
Mr. Delgado was gone.
He had dropped off his truck
and simply disappeared.
No explanation.
No nothing.
To this day, no one’s sure
if he returned
to the Dominican Republic
or started another life
elsewhere
without the son
who bears his name—
Roberto Delgado, Jr.
Now every year,
as I hang out
with my awesome dad,
my friend suffers,
alone,
sad.
What can I do?
I call him back.
“Hey, Delgado. ‘Sup?
Want to play Overwatch together?”
We both log on,
select our heroes,
help our team accomplish a goal,
shouting through our headsets,
laughing and cursing.
For a while, at least,
Delgado forgets the hole in his heart.
TERESA’S QUINCEANERA WALTZ
My sister Teresa
doesn’t want a quinceañera,
hates dresses and dancing,
would rather get a car.
But my mom insists
because it’s family tradition.
So Teresa relents
though with one firm condition:
“I want Güero to play
when the band strikes up my waltz.”
Wow! I don’t know what to say.
I never knew she was listening
when I practiced on and on.
I just give her a nervous thumbs-up.
Out of so many possible songs,
her pick is “Blue Danube.”
Mom grins at the classical choice.
Each day on my accordion
I practice that stately tune
while Teresa rehearses
the intricate steps,
the elegant moves.
The day my sister turns fifteen,
I wait for my cue and take the stage
as she takes my father’s hand,
beautiful in that dress.
My fingers glide in time with the band
and the two of them dance
as if alone in the world,
a man recognizing his daughter
for the woman she’s become.
The song winds down,
the final notes sound,
and she lifts her crowned head
to catch my eye—
my big sister,
face beaming with joy,
gives me a smile.
A SONNET FOR JOANNA
If you should need a bully beaten up,