uno. novio.
we will never belong together.
i will give up reese's cups
and brown sugar
to be with you,
i will love you down to the dirt
and cobblestone,
but i will never know
exactly who you are,
you with your chocolate
eyes and tile floors.
i confess to
envy toward the ones
who have known you
before, the ones that will
know you after i'm gone.
spanish breeze kisses
my forehead and whispers
you knew this all along.
dos. niña.
spain existed centuries
before my homeland became
a thought; still i sometimes
want to tuck a blanket around
you, protect you from
everyone who flies in to poke
and prod and photograph you,
even as i do the same.
i want to say the words
all mothers say:
be proud of who you are
(these sweatshirts that say
new york, michigan?),
don't let people put you down
(you're not supposed
to be america),
know your friends
(those madrid postcards they bought
don't mean they'll be back).
tres. amigo.
on the French coast, gracias rolled
right off our tongues as cashiers
handed back our change.
at the airport, we realized that
Spanish sounds like home.
tres. abuelita.
my world, it is the New World,
heavy roots are tugging me back
toward that place
but i remember:
i can count back four generations
to when the Old World was home,
we are not so far away,
our grandmothers
were neighbors
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