After Rubén Read online

  torn photograph of my abuelo

  “Untitled” by Malaquias Montoya smart

  phone theater programs my father’s

  gold watch boxed up photographs lap-

  top Fair Oaks the Mission Noe Valley

  skateboard Mandorla The New Yorker

  Venus in Fur Sex with Strangers a few

  DVDs Azul PALABRA I was a short

  skinny boy Midnight in Paris Yuba Poppie

  depression My Vocabulary Did This to Me

  POEM WITH CITATIONS FROM THE O.E.D.

  First: voz because I recall the taste

  of beans wrapped in a corn

  tortilla—someone brings it

  to me, retrieves what’s left

  on the plate, the murmured vowels

  taking root, taking hold—mi

  lengua materna. Then later learn

  another spelling, label the “box”

  where sound’s produced, draw too

  the tongue, the teeth, the lips. The voyce

  that is dysposid to songe and melody

  hath thyse proprytees: smalle,

  subtyll, thicke, clere, sharpe . . .

  in 1398. But what

  of the deaf-mute, his winning shout

  —BINGO!—knocking me over?

  Huxley noted: voice may exist

  without speech and speech may exist

  without voice. The first time I spoke

  with my father was on the phone, so his

  was all I had to go on: that,

  and what he’d say—things he’d hear

  “inside.” In Doctor’s Dilemma

  Shaw wrote: When my patients

  tell me they hear voices

  I lock them up. The pitch, the tone, the range:

  a way of trying to know him. Now hers

  and his are in the pages of a book:

  Un baile de máscaras by Sergio

  Ramírez, his characters echoing

  words, rhythms I heard

  until she died, hearing them as well

  for months after whenever I spoke

  with him. Who hath not shared that calm

  so still and deep, The voiceless thought

  which would not speak but weep

  POSTCARD

  Blue sky the Bay

  Bridge from afar

  arcing like a bow

  to Treasure Island

  —city skyline

  scoring a view

  tourists could buy

  at Fisherman’s Wharf

  but for the smudge

  clouding the tip

  of the Pyramid; panels

  deflecting the sun

  glint through, as if a beacon

  shrouded in fog

  were blinking a code

  to this green slope: park

  named after a mission:

  DoloresDolores

  —it simmers on my tongue, is

  Pains in Spanish, is

  her name. And beyond the grass

  a dark-haired woman

  crouching in the sand

  saying to a boy

  ¡Sácate los dedos

  de la boca!

  Take your fingers

  out of your mouth!

  REASONS WHY SHE DIDN’T

  stay. Pavement

  was one. And doors—

  a front door

  beyond which

  24th & Mission

  blared. The preacher

  at the BART

  station’s concrete

  lip seemed odd

  to her—the way

  most mornings he

  was pretty much

  ignored. Mamá

  is arm in arm

  with her: a walk

  she’ll take

  on her own in

  Tipitapa

  FAR AWAY

  (Rubén Darío)

  Ox I saw

  as a child, breath

  little clouds

  of steam, vivid

  in the sun, Nicaragua

  a fertile ranch

  abundant, rhythms

  tropic, dove in a forest

  of sound—wind,

  bird, bull, ax:

  the core

  of me are these

  and these I praise

  yes, ox: lumbering

  you evoke tender

  dawn, the milking hour

  when days were white

  and rose, and you

  cooing mountain

  dove recall

  April May

  when spring

  was all was

  everything

  JUGGLERS

  She and I on a bench peeling prawns:

  the first day of her fiftieth year and she points

  at street performers about to juggle

  fire, and a distant summer morning

  surfaces, afloat on the light wind blowing

  off the bay—older sisters in the dark, hiding

  as big brother parades around the house

  his hands outstretched clutching large candles

  I’m on a search! he shouts,

  marching from room to room

  till he finds them huddling in a jungle

  of clothes, beacons flickering as flame-

  hot wax begins to flow across his fingers

  while she is walking to Centro Adulto, her head brimming

  with phrases: the words she needs so she can quit

  sewing, land a job in a bank . . . and the sitter

  arriving minutes late, finding us wet

  and trying to save a coat, a shirt, a dress—it’s

  a small one: nothing the green hose

  and frantic assembly-line of buckets

  doesn’t eventually douse, leaving walls and curtains

  the color of coal—¡Mira! she gasps

  her left hand rapping my shoulder, still pointing with the right

  as the torches,

  from one juggler to the other,

  begin to fly

  for my mother (1932–1997)

  PHOTO, 1945

  The only photo of you, black and white

  and torn—the frayed edge

  climbing your chest, just missing

  your left eye, cutting

  off your ear: only your face

  was spared. The link

  is your daughter, youngest

  of eleven. Lifting

  the hem of her cotton dress

  above her knees, she lowers herself

  onto pebbles and beans

  you’ve carefully arranged

  on the ground. Sitting nearby

  you raise your head, peering

  over the pages of La Prensa

  to discipline a child with your eyes:

  until you think she’s had enough,

  she kneels perfectly still.

  Later, you rise from your chair

  and stretch, noting in the distance

  a slice of sun, how it hovers

  over Momotombo, smearing fire

  across a jagged horizon:

  time for drinks and a game

  of cards, when a certain mood

  seeps into your skin—hurry, they’re waiting

  for you to deal the first hand.

  Summer air laced with insect

  sounds soon fills

  with the small bells of Pedro’s

  approaching cart, peddling the ice

  he scrapes and then flavors

  with syrup. Knowing you well, she

  scrambles to the table,

  your chair, but you’re ahead of her:

  having heard the jingling too,

  you’ve set aside a few córdobas

  next to your tin cup of beer.

  Your large dark hand cups

  the back of my mother’s head

  as you kiss her forehead

  in front of your friends, pressing

  the coins into her palm. Abuelo,

/>   I’m holding you

  in my fingers—a broken window

  you gaze from, a face

  I’ve never really seen,

  or touched.

  Foto, 1945

  La única foto de ti, en blanco y negro

  y rota—el borde desgastado

  escalando tu pecho, rozando

  tu ojo izquierdo, cortando

  tu oreja: sólo tu cara

  se salvó. El lazo

  es tu hija, la más joven

  de once. Subiéndose

  el vestido de algodón

  por encima de las rodillas, dobla

  sus piernas sobre los guijarros y frijoles

  que con cuidado has

  esparcido en la tierra. Sentado cerca

  levantas la cabeza, asomándote

  por encima de La Prensa

  para disciplinar a una niña con tu mirada:

  hasta que creas que ha sido suficiente

  se queda arodillada sin moverse.

  Luego, te levantas de tu silla

  y te estiras, notando en la distancia

  una tajada de sol, y cómo se cierne

  sobre Momotombo, untando fuego

  a lo largo del horizonte montañoso:

  hora de echarse unos tragos

  y una partida, cuando un cierto humor

  se mete bajo tu piel. Apúrate,

  esperan que repartas las cartas.

  Aire veraniego se mezcla con sonidos

  de insectos, llenándose pronto

  con las campanillas del carrito

  de Pedro, que se acerca con su hielo

  para raspar y añadir sabor

  de frutas. Conociéndote bien, ella

  corre hacia la mesa

  a tu silla, pero te le has adelantado:

  habiendo oído también el tintineo

  has apartado unos cuantos córdobas

  junto a tu tarro de cerveza.

  Tu gran mano moreno sujeta por detrás

  la cabeza de mi madre

  al besarle la frente

  delante de tus amigos, apretando

  las monedas en su palma. Abuelo,

  te tengo

  entre mis dedos—una ventana

  rota por la que atisbas: una cara

  que nunca he visto

  de verdad, ni he tocado.

  GLORIA’S

  San Francisco, the ’60s

  In the photograph, my father has his back to the camera. He’s leaning forward reaching down, about to lift a shuttered metal security door. His dress shirt is slightly untucked, the sleeves bunched at the elbow. Gloria’s, a second-hand clothing store, is named after his second wife, who was born in El Salvador.

  It’s my sister Maria’s freshman year at Immaculate Conception Academy. After school, she hops on the 14 and rides to the Outer Mission in San Francisco to shop at the store. She usually picks out one item—a scarf, a belt, a blouse. When she tries handing my father her dollar bills, he waves them away. For her, it’s an excuse to visit him two, three times a month. Conceived in Nicaragua, Maria is my father’s firstborn. She was ten when he left.

  After our mother’s funeral decades later, my siblings and I share family stories and Maria says that Gloria often seemed sad—the blank expression on her face hiding something, perhaps. Gloria often wore large dark glasses.

  Some days, Maria takes us along and all four of us visit our father. I walk down a corridor of bins that are as tall as I am, brimming with “the bargains,” as opposed to the slacks and sweaters and dresses that hang from racks. The word “Gloria’s” is thickly printed on blue wooden paneling above the doorway outside, a rainbow brightly depicted beside it. One afternoon, Gloria is holding in her arms an infant with black unruly hair.

  And then there’s this: a short wrinkled woman, unmoving, just visible in the back. Whether she’s sitting or standing I can’t tell. Someone whispers her name is Juana. Someone whispers she’s Dad’s mom. I have no memory of her speaking. Maria, on the other hand, does: on a day Gloria isn’t in the store, on a day my father is busy on the phone, Maria, tentative, approaches her and says, Hola. The wrinkled woman speaks:

  Why do you keep coming here? Can’t you see he has a new family? There’s no need for you or the others to drop by. I know what you’re up to. ¡Vete! And don’t come back.

  My father replaces the receiver and sees Maria lift her hand to her mouth, swivel, and swiftly head for the door. “What’s wrong,” he calls out, in pursuit. “¿Qué te pasa?” as he catches up and holds her by the arm. Maria, without looking up, tells him, her voice unsteady. “Ay don’t pay any attention to her,” he sneers. “¡Es una vieja loca!”

  ERNESTO CARDENAL IN BERKELEY

  1982

  The books in my backpack

  felt lighter walking

  down the stairs at 24th & Mission. The sky

  was clear and I wasn’t heading for school . . .

  Above, at the station’s mouth, a preacher

  wove Spanish while beyond him

  on the ground a whiskered man

  snored through the morning, his trousers

  soiled. A thought flickered, swayed

  (Rubén Darío in Madrid . . . ) as I rode

  east along the floor

  of the bay; commuters dozed,

  later did crosswords going home, more

  of them boarding at Embarcadero,

  Montgomery, Powell. After

  the reading I was a notebook

  filled—mamá y papá juntos a different

  life billowing inside me:

  a dusty street in Granada

  or León, playing baseball;

  or picturing in class how

  Francisco Hernández de Córdoba

  is led across the plaza he himself

  had traced out with his sword,

  beheaded

  BLISTER

  the noun

  A disease

  of the peach tree

  —a fungus

  distorts leaves.

  The first time

  I was taken

  to see him

  I was five

  or six. A vesicle

  on the skin

  containing

  serum, caused

  by friction,

  a burn, or other

  injury. He lived

  on Alabama Street

  near Saint

  Peter’s and wore

  a white T-shirt,

  starched and snug.

  A similar swelling

  with fluid

  or air

  on the surface

  of a plant,

  or metal

  after cooling

  or the sunless

  area between

  one’s toes

  after a very

  long walk.

  Don’t ask me

  how it is I

  ended up

  holding it.

  An outer

  covering

  fitted to a

  vessel to protect

  against torpedos,

  mines, or to improve

  stability. My guess

  is that he

  brought it out

  to show me

  thinking, perhaps,

  I had never

  seen one

  up close,

  let alone felt

  the blunt weight

  of one

  in my hands.

  A rounded

  compartment

  protruding

  from the body

  of a plane.

  What came

  next: no

  image but

  sensation of

  its hammer

  (my inexpert

  manipulation)

  digging

  into but not

  breaking

  skin—the spot

  at the base

  of my thumb

  balloons,

&n
bsp; filling slowly

  with fluid . . .

  In Spanish:

  ampolla

  —an Ampul

  of chrystal

  in the Middle

  Ages could be

  a relic containing

  the blood

  of someone

  holy. I’m fairly

  certain it wasn’t

  loaded.

  CALLE MOMOTOMBO

  Managua, the ’50s

  I

  Nights, I step

  in, take a seat

  beside her

  sewing machine,

  stay until one,

  two, platicando—

  cómo me encanta

  la madrugada.

  Months leading

  up to Christmas

  blur, filling

  orders—vestidos,

  camisas, skirts. We

  leave the door

  open and greet

  who strolls up,

  down the street. Nada

  de peligro,

  safe

  II

  They’re tending el puesto

  Yolanda, Sandra, Conchita . . .

  And since I’m Lolita’s

  novio, I say, ¿Dónde

  está? She’s inside

  doing the dishes

  —all I need to know:

  como un gato I tiptoe

  towards her, the faucet

  more spring than

  faucet, the incessant

  sound of water

  masking my steps—

  soft, soft from behind

  until I raise both

  hands and curl

  my arms firmly

  around, cover

  her eyes, envuelto

  en mis brazos,

  her back up

  against my chest

  —tight. Of course

  she knows: no one