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This edition is published by special arrangement with Harcourt Brace & Company.
Neighborhood Odes by Gary Soto, illustrated by David Diaz. Text copyright © 1992 by Gary Soto; illustrations copyright © 1992 by Harcourt Brace & Company. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace & Company.
For Nancy Mellor
— G. S.
For Jericho and Ariel, my tiger boys
— D. D.
ODE TO LOS RASPADOS
Papá says
They were
A shiny dime
When he was
Little, but for me,
His daughter
With hair that swings
Like jump ropes,
They’re free:
Papá drives a truck
Of helados and
Snow cones, the
Music of arrival
Playing block
After block.
It’s summer now.
The sun is bright
As a hot dime.
You need five
Shiny ones
For a snow cone:
Strawberry and root beer,
Grape that stains
The mouth with laughter,
Orange that’s a tennis ball
Of snow
You could stab
With a red-striped straw.
We have
Green lime
And dark cola,
And we have
An umbrella of five colors.
When the truck stops,
The kids come running,
Some barefoot,
Some in T-shirts
That end at the
Cyclone knot
Of belly buttons,
Some in swimming
Trunks and dripping
Water from a sprinkler
On a brown lawn.
I’m twelve going
On thirteen,
And I know what’s what
When it comes to
Snow cones
Packed with the flat
Of a hand and laced
With a gurgle
Of sugary water.
I know the rounds
Of the neighborhood.
I know the kids,
Gina and Ofélia,
Juan and Ananda,
Shorty and Sleepy,
All running
With dimes pressed
To their palms,
Salted from play
Or mowing the lawn.
When they walk away,
The dime of sun
Pays them back
With laughter
And the juice runs
To their elbows,
Sticky summer rain
That sweetens the street.
ODE TO LA TORTILLA
They are flutes
When rolled, butter
Dripping down my elbow
As I stand on the
Front lawn, just eating,
Just watching a sparrow
Hop on the lawn,
His breakfast of worms
Beneath the green, green lawn,
Worms and a rip of
Tortilla I throw
At his thorny feet.
I eat my tortilla,
Breathe in, breathe out,
And return inside,
Wiping my oily hands
On my knee-scrubbed jeans.
The tortillas are still warm
In a dish towel,
Warm as gloves just
Taken off, finger by finger.
Mamá is rolling
Them out. The radio
On the window sings,
El cielo es azul…
I look in the black pan:
The face of the tortilla
With a bubble of air
Rising. Mamá
Tells me to turn
It over, and when
I do, carefully,
It’s blistered brown.
I count to ten,
Uno, dos, tres…
And then snap it out
Of the pan. The tortilla
Dances in my hands
As I carry it
To the drainboard,
Where I smear it
With butter,
The yellow ribbon of butter
That will drip
Slowly down my arm
When I eat on the front lawn.
The sparrow will drop
Like fruit
From the tree
To stare at me
With his glassy eyes.
I will rip a piece
For him. He will jump
On his food
And gargle it down,
Chirp once and fly
ODE TO THE SPRINKLER
There is no swimming
Pool on
Our street,
Only sprinklers
On lawns,
The helicopter
Of water
Slicing our legs.
We run through
The sprinkler,
Water on our
Lips, water
Dripping
From eyelashes,
Water like
Fat raindrops
That fall from
Skinny trees when
You’re not looking.
I run como
Un chango,
In my orange
Swimming trunks,
Jumping up and
Down, pounding
The mushy grass
With my feet.
One time a bee
Stung my toe,
The next-to-the-biggest
Toe. Then that toe
Got bigger
Than my real
Big toe,
Like a balloon
On its way up.
I cried and
Sat on the porch.
The water on
My face was not
Water from the sprinkler,
But water from
Inside my body,
Way down where
Pain says, ¡Híjole!
That hurts!
Mom brought me
A glass of Kool-Aid.
I drank some
And then pressed
The icy glass
Against my throbbing toe.
The toe
Shrank back
Into place,
And on that day
I began to think
Of Kool-Aid not
As sugar on
The tongue
But as medicine.
And as for the bees,
You have to watch
For them. They buzz
The lawn for
Their own sugar
And wet play.
ODE TO SEÑOR LEAL’S GOAT
In the back yard
With three red
Chickens, the goat
With a tin can
For a bell drinks
From a rain puddle.
The puddle reflects
A blue sky, some clouds,
And the goat’s tongue
Darting in and out.
When Señor Leal
Comes down the back
Porch, the goat looks
Up and nods his head.
The bell clangs,
And the chickens
Look up, heads cocked,
Strut and follow
The goat. The goat
Gets a carrot
And the chickens get
Cl
apping hands
That scare them away.
Chickens go back to
Pecking at the sandy ground.
Señor Leal feeds
His goat, and
Then lights his pipe.
Señor Leal, breathing in,
Looks at the sky,
Blue as an egg,
And feels good.
It’s early morning.
The wind from
Some faraway mountain
Has reached him.
Señor Leal inhales
On his pipe
And then admires
The sky some more.
The goat, not knowing
Better, grabs the pipe
From Señor Leal’s hand.
Señor Leal yells,
“¿Qué pasó?” The goat,
With pipe hanging
From his mouth,
Runs around the yard,
Through the patch
Of chiles and tomatoes,
The purple of
Eggplants. “Hey,”
Señor Leal yells.
The goat can’t baa,
Because his lips
Are gripping the pipe —
A funny sight for
The chickens,
Who stay clear.
When Señor Leal
Finally grabs his goat,
The pipe is smoked.
And the goat’s eyes
Are spinning from
The dizzy breath
Of man’s bad habit.
ODE TO MI PERRITO
He’s brown as water
Brown as leaves and branches,
Brown as pennies in a hand.
He’s brown as my mitt
On a bedpost,
And just as quick:
A baseball rolls
His way and his teeth
Chatter after it.
Mi perrito rolls
His tongue for the taste
Of a dropped chicharrón,
For the jawbreaker
That fell from my pocket,
For a potato chip bag
Blowing across a lawn.
He’s brown as earth
But his days are yellow
As the sun at noon.
Today he rode
In my father’s car,
His paws on the dash
As he looked around
At the road giving way
To farms and countryside.
He barked at slow drivers
And Father barked back.
Where did they go?
Fishing. Ten miles
From town, and they crossed
A river, blue with the
Rush of water.
Fish lurked beneath
The surface, the big
O of their mouths
Gulping bubbles.
Father threw his line
There, and waited,
His hands in his pockets.
Mi perrito didn’t wait.
He jumped into the river,
And jumped back out —
The water was icy
Cold. Father fished
And mi perrito
Walked along the riverbank,
Sniffing for birds
And cool-throated mice.
Mi perrito was a hunter.
He crept in the low brush,
His ears perked up.
When he jumped,
His paws landed on a cricket.
The cricket chirped
And jumped into
The gray ambush of grass.
He barked and returned
To my father, who
Returned to the car:
The fish would have
Nothing of hook and sinker.
They drove back
To town through the curve
Of hills. When
My father turned
Sharply, mi perrito barked
Because it’s his job
To make noise
Of oncoming danger.
He had his paws
Up on the dash,
With a good view
Of the hills
Where cows sat down on the job.
When one cow dared
To moo, mi perrito barked
And showed his flashing teeth.
Mi perrito is a chihuahua —
Smaller than a cat,
Bigger than a rubber mouse.
Like mouse and cat,
He goes running
When the real dogs
Come into the yard.
ODE TO LOS CHICHARRONES
They are shaped
Like trumpets,
The blow of salt
On your lips
When you raise
One to your mouth.
The music is a crunch
On the back molars,
A hard crunch that
Flushes the ears
And tires the jaw.
When Mamá is
Not looking,
When she is stabbing
Your torn pants
With a threaded needle,
You sneak into
The kitchen:
They’re on top
Of the refrigerator,
Among the old bread
Sighing in plastic wrappers,
And the forgotten oranges,
Puckered as elbows.
It’s the chicharrones
That you want,
Salt for football
In the front yard,
Salt for the hoe
You will take up
To clear the flower bed
Before your father comes home,
Salt for the bike race
And the shadow you
Won’t catch.
You take a horn
Of chicharrón,
And sneak out
Of the house.
The first bite
Is in the alley,
The second bite
In a tree,
The third bite
On a car fender
Of a neighbor who
Has yelled, “¡Ay Dios!”
To the racket
Of chicharrón
Being devoured
By adult teeth
In a fourth grader’s head.
She tells you to go away,
And you do, walking up
The street with
Your half-bitten horn of plenty,
A dog at your heels.
When you’re through,
The dog will lick
Your palms for the flakes
Of oil and salt,
And he will wag
His tail
And pump his legs
In his parade
Of dog happiness.
You drink cool water
From a garden hose
And sit on the lawn,
The sun riding a
White cloud of autumn.
You enjoyed
The trumpet
Of noise and salt.
And even the ants
Raised their heads:
Knowing what’s good,
They dropped their bread crumbs
For a single flake
Of chicharrón.
ODE TO PABLO’S TENNIS SHOES
They wait under Pablo’s bed,
Rain-beaten, sun-beaten,
A scuff of green
At their tips
From when he fell
In the school yard.
He fell leaping for a football
That sailed his way.
But Pablo fell and got up,
Green on his shoes,
With the football
Out of reach.
Now it’s night.
Pablo is in bed listening
To his mother laughing
To the Mexican novelas on TV.
His shoes, twi
n pets
That snuggle his toes,
Are under the bed.
He should have bathed,
But he didn’t.
(Dirt rolls from his palm,
Blades of grass
Tumble from his hair.)
He wants to be
Like his shoes,
A little dirty
From the road,
A little worn
From racing to the drinking fountain
A hundred times in one day.
It takes water
To make him go,
And his shoes to get him
There. He loves his shoes,
Cloth like a sail,
Rubber like
A lifeboat on rough sea.
Pablo is tired,
Sinking into the mattress.
His eyes sting from
Grass and long words in books.
He needs eight hours
Of sleep
To cool his shoes,
The tongues hanging
Out, exhausted.
ODE TO LA LLORONA
They say she weeps
Knee-deep in the river,
The gray of dusk
A shawl over her head.
She weeps for her children,
Their smothered faces
Of sleeping angels …
Normaaaa, Marioooo, Carloooos.
They say she calls
Children, offering
Them candy
From her sleeve.
They say she will
Point a long finger,
Gnarled root of evilness,
And stare a soft
Hole in your lungs:
The air leaks
From this hole.
And climbs in the trees.
In autumn, she appears
With a pomegranate,
Each seed the heart
Of a child she took away.
She will whisper, Monicaaaaa,
Beniciooooo, Ernestooooo.
If you’re on your bike,
Ride faster.
If you’re on foot,
Run without looking up.
In these times,
The sliced moon hangs
In the sky, moon
That is orange,
The color of
A face in the porchlight.
At home
The cooler in the window
Stops, then starts,
And the TV flickers
With a climate of snow.
These are signs, and the
Dog with mismatched eyes,
The turtle in the
Middle of the road,
And the newspapers
Piling up on a roof.
La Llorona is the mother
Of drowned children.
Beware a woman
Dripping water in July
When no rain has fallen.
ODE TO MI PARQUE
On Sundays
After Mass,
After the car
Is washed
And the lawn cut — blades
Of grass standing up
In salute — we go
To the park. We drive