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
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.
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
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