by David Bowles
poco tiempo en la cocina, Güerito. Go on,
check the score. My Cowboys best be winning!”
I head to the living room, hear encouraging cheers,
think about the gossip I’ve heard. It might sound
mean, but it’s just for fun. They love us, their men and
boys, warts and all.
After the game, the whole clan sits down to eat,
smiling and hungry, offering prayers and replays.
The tamales are more delicious than ever,
bursting with flavor, full of rich fillings, sure,
but also so much history,
hard work, great fun,
and family magic.
FOOD FOR EACH SEASON
EIGHT HAIKU
San Marcos blanket—
only the sound of bacon
can make me emerge.
Sipping atole,
folks search their piece of rosca
for baby Jesus.
Hazy spring morning—
stopping for breakfast tacos
on the way to school.
South Padre Island
teeming with college students,
the warm Gulf with shrimp.
Fragrant white flowers
on a sea of glossy green—
Red Ruby grapefruit.
The smell of pizza
in the hallways of my school—
summer’s almost here.
Cold and juicy red—
the watermelon awaits
its chile dusting.
White-hot, pitiless,
the sun bakes the earth bone-dry…
where’s the raspa man?
THE GIFT
This whole semester I’ve moaned and groaned,
“All of my friends have got a cell phone!”
while I begged my parents for one of my own.
“You’re way too young,” my mom calmly said.
“They’re way too expensive,” added my dad,
“It would put our budget far into the red!”
Grandpa Manny argued they make kids lazy.
Abuela declared I would drive her crazy:
Eyes glued to the screen, sight going hazy.
No phone till high school begins, it seems.
But as presents pile up under the tree,
I examine each bag and box carefully.
A daily ritual until Christmas morning,
when we rip off the wrapping in front of adoring
adults. I’m a bit disappointed until, without warning,
Dad hands me a gift that fits in my palm,
I tear the thing open, forgetting all calm.
It’s a cheap pulga knock-off, but I do not groan—
I hug both my parents, shouting,
“Thanks for the phone!”
ANSWERING THE BULLY
First I hear
Snake’s voice.
“Think you’re all that,
güero cacahuatero?”
Then his hand
grabs my head,
slams me into a locker.
I stumble, turn.
“What the—?”
He sneers at me
and everybody
in the hallway
laughs.
“Fancy house,
teacher’s pet,
stupid poems,
all these freckles—
you’re just a gringo nerd.”
I can’t think.
The bell’s about to ring.
I rush to class.
Ms. Wong frowns
at the red blotch
on my face.
My friends whisper
encouragement,
but my ears are
full of rage.
He’s too big,
too mean,
too ignorant.
I yank out
my journal
and answer Snake
with words
instead of fists.
Ms. Wong watches,
concern on her face,
as I scratch
furiously.
And when her timer
dings
she asks me to
stand and read.
Yo, bullies: lero, lero
I’m the mero Güero
a real cacahuatero,
peanuts and chile
all up in this cuero,
this piel, this skin—
it’s white, that’s true
but I’m just as Mexican
as you and you and you.
My voice shakes
but I meet their eyes.
In the back,
Snake’s friend
El Chaparro
shakes his head,
puts his phone away.
He’s recorded
every word.
I head for my seat.
Bobby Lee bumps my fist
before whispering
“That was lit,
but he’s gonna kill you.”
Probably.
Still, it felt good
to stand my ground
and clap back
with rap.
JOANNA LA FREGONA
Even when I was a little boy
still thinking girls were gross,
Abuela Mimi gave me romantic advice:
“Find yourself a fregona, Güerito,
a tough one who doesn’t need you at all
but wants you anyway.
Así como María Félix o Frida Kahlo,
a woman who will be your companion,
your equal in life and love.”
Now I know what she meant.
There’s a girl in my social studies class,
Joanna Padilla. Can’t get her off my mind.
She’s kind of pretty, but that’s not
what matters to me.
She’s smart and rude,
takes judo classes after school,
helps her dad in his body shop,
loves superhero films and video games.
Okay, I’m a little obsessed, I’ll admit.
But I have zero luck. When I ask her
to be my girlfriend, she just laughs.
I even write her a long poem,
which she just sticks in her back pocket
like a restroom pass. Nothing works!
After school that bully Snake Barrera
decides to rearrange my face, just as
Joanna goes walking by. “Help me!”
I call. “Help me, Joanna.” She turns
and tells him to leave me alone.
When he laughs and tries to hit me again,
she grabs his arm and throws him down.
“Took guts to ask a girl for help,”
Joanna says as she pulls me to my feet.
“I liked your poem. Funny and sweet.
Okay, Güero. You can be my boyfriend.”
I wipe blood from my lip
as the kids who’ve gathered
Go “ooh” and “aah.”
Then my fregona smiles.
“You got any money?
We can go to Rosy’s.
Fighting makes me hungry.”
NEIGHBORHOODS
When school’s out each day
I walk home with my bros and girl,
stopping at Rosy’s Drive-Thru
for Takis preparados
and agua mineral.
There, Handy’s mom
picks him up in her hybrid.
Like all the older families,
they live closer
to the heart of town.
Sometimes Lee catches a ride with them
to his family’s store.
The rest of us keep walking.
Andrés peels off toward the south,
waving goodbye
as he enters his colonia—
caliche streets, mobile homes,
wooden shacks.
His dogs
rush to greet him.
Rising slow across the street
come cinderblock shells of houses,
partly finished and partially roofed,
promised futures looming.
Joanna squeezes my hand
and heads that way with Delgado
licking Taki dust off her fingers.
A subdivision
sprawls a little farther down—
big residences
bought ready-made by families
who come with plenty of cash.
On days when Lee has piano practice,
he slaps me on the back
and hurries along those well-paved streets,
past manicured lawns
to his parents’ fancy home.
Our house, though,
stands by itself,
on a half-acre lot
in the shade of mesquite,
ebony, anacua trees.
I pause on the porch
and look back up the road.
We were one of the first families
here on the northernmost side.
Dad helped build a bunch
of these neighborhoods
as new moms and dads arrived
from Mexico and even further south.
Everyone works hard, tries to make
a better life for their families.
I feel safe on these caliche streets,
among these humble houses—
I hear little kids laughing
in the distance
and I smile.
VALENTINE TEXTS
me:
bae u want roses
or candy for valentines?
im shopping for something nice
her:
roses die, wero
candy gives me zits. mejor
hold my hand, write me a poem
MOVIES
We’ve got a plan.
One Saturday me and los Bobbys
get dropped off at the movies
by our parents.
Joanna’s already there
with three of her cousins.
We buy popcorn and coke.
My friends make stupid jokes.
The girls just roll their eyes and giggle.
We grab seats in a middle row:
Boys on the left, girls on the right,
me and Joanna in the middle.
The plan is working perfectly.
At least for me. Los Bobbys?
They keep stealing glances,
but Joanna’s cousins
act like they don’t notice
my weird and desperate friends.
The movie takes forever to start.
Fifteen minutes of commercials,
followed by trailers that spoil
all the cool scenes and jokes
of the spring’s big releases.
Finally the lights dim.
It’s the latest superhero film.
I try to pay attention
but it’s not all that intense.
Besides, I feel Joanna’s presence
like electricity crackling beside me.
A moment of suspense comes—
she jumps, grabs my hand.
Our fingers lock and the film fades.
All I can think about is the pressure
of her arm against mine,
the scent of her hair
as she leans against me,
putting her head on my shoulder.
Then the credits roll.
The lights come on.
We untangle ourselves,
and I feel a little weird.
Me and Joanna,
we don’t look at each other.
But somehow each boy
is sitting next to a girl!
How did that happen?
I laugh with los Bobbys.
Joanna talks with her cousins.
We all try to act
like nothing has changed.
REMEDIOS Y RAREZAS
SUPERSTITIOUS SENRYU
Me and los Bobbys
compare all the strange beliefs
our families share.
Red rags around chair legs
so tricky little devils
don’t make moms forget.
If you hiccup,
Abuelita licks a red thread,
sticks it to your forehead.
For the worst migraines,
rolling an egg on your head
takes away the pain.
Sweep a girl’s feet
and she’ll never get married—
my sister grabs the broom!
When nothing goes right,
bundles of burning sage
drive bad vibes away.
Chamomile tea
(to judge from how much we drink)
must cure everything.
At dinner tables,
you never pass the salt—
it’s just bad luck.
My tías’ purses
have never touched the floor—
they think they’ll go broke.
I wore red chones
on New Year’s—a gift from Mom.
Love was on its way!
CASCARON WAR
After Easter Mass,
we head to Tía Vero’s house
to hunt for bright eggs
amid blooming citrus trees.
Half-acre dotted
with specks of vibrant color:
Huercos rush with joy,
baskets swinging in their hands.
Some eggs are plastic,
stuffed with candy, jangling coins.
I want the others,
los cascarones!
These are the true prizes!
Hollowed out, confetti-filled
or heavy with flour,
sealed with tape and loud pastels.
Cousins jostle me,
competing for this ammo,
these small gaudy bombs
we collect in plastic bags.
Even young uncles
snatch a few from little kids
and the war is on
like mock combats in ancient times.
Teresa gets me,
smashes the shell on my head
rainbow dandruff falls,
but I don’t chase her. Patience.
Instead, I lob eggs
at Joseph and Álvaro,
duck down so pingos
like Arturo can reach me.
I crack a pink shell
in the air over mom’s hair
(would never hit her)
and let vivid fragments fall.
The yard’s a riot
of squeals and screams and laughter.
Little bits of construction paper
drift among the flowers.
I see my sister. Time for payback!
I stalk her like a hunter,
keeping out of sight,
circling behind the grapefruit trees.
I heft the flour-packed cascarón,
sneaking up behind her, then
CRASH! against her cranium:
Dust her ghost-white in revenge.
LA LECHUZA OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
Last night I stayed up late
watching a horror movie on my tablet.
It was hard to get to sleep—
I lay there tossing and turning
for a while, squeezing my eyes shut,
but the moonlight streaming in
was too bright on my face,
so I got up, sighing, to close the blinds.
There,
on a thick limb
of the mesquite tree
just outside my window,
perched the biggest lechuza
I have ever seen, a bone-white
screech owl with inky black eyes
and demon-horn tufts high on its head,
which swiveled toward me at that very moment.
I could hear Mimi’s voice<
br />
echoing in my fluttering heart:
“Not all lechuzas are simple owls, Güerito.
Some are witches in disguise
using the cover of feathers and darkness
to carry out bad deeds. Así que ojo,
be on your guard. If it stares, not blinking,
then lets loose a horrible screech,
it might be the end of you!”
I don’t believe her legends anymore,
I’m not a little kid, shivering in fear
that a witch owl could come crashing
through the window, into my room,
and fly away with me in its talons.
But still
I thought,
why tempt fate?
I closed the blinds,
drew the curtains shut,
and got back under the covers.
Now I struggled even more
to drift off, but finally I did,
Durmiendo con los angelitos.
Till I woke up with a start
around 3 am,
covered in sweat,
panting,
the screech of an owl
echoing in my ears.
I leaped from bed
and pulled back the curtains
of the south window,
peering through the blinds.
Nothing.
I laughed weakly
at my own foolishness
and turned back to bed.
That’s when I saw it,
silhouetted against the curtains
of the west window,
the one with no blinds at all.
The owl had flown to a different tree,
sat there in silence, staring at me.
Without hesitation, I grabbed my pillow
and my blanket, hurried down the hall
to my little brother’s room
and squeezed beside him on that narrow bed.
It’s strange how safe
another person’s presence makes us feel.
He couldn’t do a thing to stop the owl,
but his gentle breathing calmed my fear.
I closed my tired eyes at last,
glad to be next to my little brother.
Better to be safe than sorry, I thought
as I fell back into deep sleep.
BALLAD OF THE MIGHTY TLACUACHE
The big opossum clambered down
the knotted old mesquite;
as night had fallen thick and dark,
it was now time to eat.
The humans’ garbage can was close,
he followed that sweet smell.
But then he caught the briefest whiff
of evil scents as well—
The prowling cat, his nemesis!
Invader of this land!
Whose ancestors had crossed the sea
along with the white man!
It leapt into the space between
Tlacuache and his meal;
it arched its back and puffed its fur
