Neighborhood Odes

by Gary Soto

  HARCOURT BRACE & COMPANY

  OrlandoAtlantaAustinBostonSan FranciscoChicagoDallasNew YorkTorontoLondon

  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

  Back into the wintry tree.

  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

  Over a stone,

  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