Neighborhood Odes, Page 3

  Would pull a muscle

  In his arm.

  Tony pulls off his T-shirt.

  He flexes his biceps,

  And apples show up in his arms.

  “Pretty good,” he says,

  His fists clenched.

  He takes another

  Bite of apple,

  And out of happiness

  Bites the apples

  In his biceps, tenderly

  Of course. The teeth

  Marks are pink,

  His arms brown,

  And his roar red as a lion’s

  With a paw swiping at air.

  ODE TO WEDDINGS

  For María,

  It’s the lace dress,

  The cake with

  Its three tiers,

  The pink punch

  With its armada of ice cubes.

  It’s the drive from

  The church. The horns

  Blare from one

  Street to the next,

  And the paper flowers

  Taped to the hoods

  Blow in the traffic of wind.

  For María’s mother

  It’s the music,

  The mariachis

  With their

  Guitar, trumpets,

  And the romance

  Of two violins.

  It’s the hug

  From the bride,

  And a pat on the arm

  From the groom.

  It’s the gossip

  And cups of coffee,

  And “Ay, Dios”

  To rumors of love.

  For Pedro,

  The little brother,

  It’s the chicken mole,

  First on his plate

  But soon on his shirt.

  He hates the bow tie

  And his hair plastered down

  With the stink

  Of Abuelo’s pomade.

  He hates his feet

  Squeezed into shoes

  And the white socks.

  He hates that

  The bride and groom

  Are the first to cut

  Into the cake,

  Sugar heaven for

  The three baby teeth

  Still in his head.

  His fork has been ready

  For one long hour.

  For the father,

  It’s the beer

  With his compadres,

  The four of them

  Along the wall,

  Their ties undone

  And coats open.

  They’re talking

  Baseball. The Dodgers

  Up by three,

  At the beginning

  Of August.

  They’re worried

  About the three-game

  Surge by the Giants.

  They’re worried

  About lawns

  And new tires,

  The burglary

  Of a friend’s house,

  And the bicycle

  Snatched from

  Someone’s boy — or

  So they heard.

  They’re worried

  But happy. It’s

  Been a good year

  Of pay raises

  And children in college.

  It’s Saturday

  In Los Angeles. The sky

  Is almost blue and

  A blessed wind

  Has cooled the hallway.

  The high school novios

  Are now married,

  Belinda and Rudolfo.

  When they smile,

  The hands of old tías

  Touch their hearts

  And the viejos raise

  Their half-finished beers

  To the slosh of salud.

  Then the dance music

  Starts, slowly at first,

  Then wildly, with

  Bodies spinning.

  A breeze sends

  The fancy napkins

  On the table

  Blowing like flowers.

  ODE TO POMEGRANATES

  Just as fall

  Turns the air,

  And the first

  Leaves begin

  To parachute

  To the ground,

  The pomegranate

  Bursts a seam

  And the jewels

  Wink a red message.

  The García brothers

  Have been waiting.

  All summer

  They have lived

  On candies and plums,

  Bunches of grapes

  From their tío

  In the San Joaquin Valley.

  Now it’s time

  On this bright Saturday

  When they’ll jump

  The fence of Mrs. López

  And pluck off

  Six pomegranates.

  It’s six sins

  Against them,

  But they just can’t help

  Themselves. They

  Love that treasure

  Of jewels glistening

  Through cracked husks.

  Sitting at a curb,

  The Garcías bite

  Into the pomegranates,

  And their mouths

  Fill with the shattered

  Sweetness. The blood

  Of the fruit runs

  Down to their elbows,

  Like a vein,

  Like a red river,

  Like a trail of red ants.

  They eat without talking.

  When they finish

  With four of the six

  Pomegranates,

  Their mouths are red.

  As the laughter of clowns.

  And they are clowns.

  Mrs. López has been watching

  Them from the windows.

  She can see that they

  Are boys who live

  By the sweet juice on tongues.

  From her porch,

  She winds up

  Like a pitcher

  And hurls a pomegranate.

  It splatters

  In the road,

  A few inches from them,

  The juice flying up

  Like blood.

  The boys run down

  The street,

  With shame smeared

  On their dirty faces.

  ODE TO EL MOLCAJETE

  It’s a stone

  In my abuela’s kitchen,

  A stone which

  Grinds Fresno chiles

  And runs with

  The blood of tomatoes.

  The half moon of onion

  Cries sad tears

  Into the stone,

  And my abuela

  Leaks two or three tears,

  Not from the sadness

  Of a son going away,

  Not for the starstruck

  Young couples

  In TV novelas.

  It’s the onion

  That makes her cry.

  She wipes a tear

  With a crushed Kleenex

  And waves a hand

  Over her nose,

  The fumes of the chile

  Lifting toward the ceiling.

  Once, I licked

  A spoon still puddled

  In the molcajete,

  And I ran around

  The back yard,

  My tongue like a red flag,

  Like the tongue

  Of a dog on a hot day.

  I drank from

  The hose, a gas station

  Of water filling up

  My one-gallon stomach.

  Another time

  I took molcajete

  To the back yard.

  I filled it

  With wet dirt,

  This upside-down turtle,

  This slaughterhouse

  For chiles and tomatoes,

  The thousand sheets of onion.

  But it wasn’t the onion

  That made me cry,

  But my mother

  Looking out from the window.<
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  She tapped the glass

  And pointed an angry finger

  At the molcajete,

  Packed with dirt

  And sprouting a forest

  Of twigs and popsicle sticks.

  I don’t know

  How my abuelo does it,

  Spoons the fire

  Of chile

  Onto his frijoles,

  And scoops them up

  With tortilla.

  I stand by him when

  He eats. To me,

  The chile is a gush

  Of lava. But

  His jaw goes up

  And down, and my mouth

  Goes up and

  Down, on red candy,

  The best I can do.

  When I pass

  The kitchen,

  I pet the molcajete,

  The turtle-shaped stone

  That could snap

  Your tongue

  And make it wag

  Crowns of fire.

  ODE TO FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHS

  This is the pond, and these are my feet.

  This is the rooster, and this is more of my feet.

  Mamá was never good at pictures.

  This is a statue of a famous general who lost an arm,

  And this is me with my head cut off.

  This is a trash can chained to a gate,

  This is my father with his eyes half-closed.

  This is a photograph of my sister

  And a giraffe looking over her shoulder.

  This is our car’s front bumper.

  This is a bird with a pretzel in its beak.

  This is my brother Pedro standing on one leg on a rock,

  With a smear of chocolate on his face.

  Mamá sneezed when she looked

  Behind the camera: the snapshot are blurry,

  The angles dizzy as a spin on a merry-go-round.

  But we had fun when Mamá picked up the camera.

  How can I tell?

  Each of us laughing hard.

  Can you see? I have candy in my mouth.

  ODE TO THE MAYOR

  Dear Mayor,

  My brother Danny

  Chipped his tooth

  On the cracked sidewalk,

  His fault really

  Because he was on

  His skateboard

  With his eyes closed

  And his fat mouth open.

  His front tooth

  Is chipped.

  Now he sticks

  His tongue

  Where his tooth was.

  He’s making me mad.

  He’s making my baby sister mad,

  Because she was the one

  Missing a tooth,

  My fault because

  I was racing her around

  In the stroller

  And tipped her over

  Taking a corner.

  No cracked sidewalk

  There, just flat,

  Smooth sidewalk.

  Dear Mayor,

  I’m writing you

  Not about my sister

  But about Danny.

  He’s bothering everybody.

  He’s on his board

  Right now and he’s

  Taunting three girls,

  His fat tongue

  Wiggling like a worm

  From the chipped place

  In his mouth.

  It’s embarrassing.

  No one likes us.

  Not even dogs come by

  To wag their tails.

  Dear Mayor,

  Have you seen Danny

  When you drive

  Around town?

  He wears glasses.

  Sometimes he wears

  A T-shirt,

  And sometimes

  He doesn’t,

  Brown face

  Sticky with ice cream.

  Mom cut his

  Hair yesterday

  And he’s bald

  As a fist.

  Just look for

  A waggling tongue.

  Is there a law

  Against a boy

  With glasses,

  Sticky face,

  No hair,

  And a tongue

  Between his teeth

  On a Saturday morning?

  SPANISH WORDS AND PHRASES

  abuelagrandmother

  abuelo grandfather

  abuelitos grandparents

  Ándale hurry up

  ay, ay, mi vida oh, oh, my life

  ay, Dios oh, God

  chicharrones fried pork rinds

  el cielo es azul the sky is blue

  como un chango like a monkey

  compadres very close friends

  dámelo give it to me

  diablito little devil

  frijoles refried beans

  gato cat

  guitarrón acoustic bass guitar

  helados ice cream

  híjole exclamation as in, “Wow!”

  huevo egg

  jeta thick lips, as in pouting

  la Llorona the weeping woman

  molcajete mortar for grinding herbs and spices

  novelas soap operas

  novios lovers

  perrito doggie

  porque because

  qué bueno how good

  ¿qué es? what is it?

  ¿qué pasó? what happened?

  raspados snow cones

  salud cheers

  tía aunt

  tío uncle

  viejos old men