by Gary Soto
Slowly, warm air sucking
Into the rolled-down windows
Of our Chevy, the
Sharpest one on the block.
As we enter
The park we drive
In circles. Papá
Taps his thumb
Against the horn
When he sees friends
And their families
Gathered around barbecues.
They wave and we wave.
I often think,
They’re drinking sodas
And eating chips
Without us.
Papá finds our place.
Parking the car,
He goes back and forth
Until it’s just right.
He revs the engine,
A cloud of blue smoke
From the tailpipe,
And cuts it off.
We all pile out
Of the back seat,
Lourdes and María,
And baby Alex
With his Tinkertoys
Wet with drool.
I help Mamá with
The aluminum chairs,
The hibachi, the
Ice chest with
Its treasure of cold, cold ice.
I like looking at fire.
Papá starts the hibachi
With a pile of briquets
And bark from
The eucalyptus,
Those tall trees
They say drink
Like elephants.
Wind shoves smoke in
My face, stinging
My eyes. I blink
And cough. I sneeze
As I get away.
And I like getting away.
I like walking alone
In the park,
A stick in my hand,
Imagining a hundred arrows
In my side.
One time I did
Get lost. I was six then,
A little taller
Than our dog Queenie,
And I walked around
The pink-colored
Restrooms, past the
Monkey bars and
The train tracks,
Where sparrows
Hopped on and off
The shiny rails.
I walked until I
Was lost. When I tried
To get back,
I kept going to
The wrong picnic
Table: the families
Looked like my family,
With lots of kids
And smoke from the hibachi
Stinging everyone’s eyes.
When I called, “Mamá! Mamá!”
A woman looked up. Her eyes
Were wet, not from laughter,
But from breathing in smoke.
I don’t know how
I got back, but I did.
See, it’s a Sunday now
And I’m hot from playing soccer
With my sister. We sit
On the picnic table,
Swinging our legs
And looking for
Something easy to do.
Lourdes, my older sister,
Wants to play
A game, a contest
Of who can keep
A hand in ice.
We throw open
The ice chest,
And counting one, two, three,
Plunge our hands
Into the ice.
Lourdes looks at me,
And I look at her,
And even though we’re cold
Sweat beads our brows.
I count thirty-one, thirty-two… .
My hand comes up first,
Pink as a starfish,
Then plunges back
Into the ice for cream sodas,
A winner after all.
ODE TO MIGATO
He’s white
As spilled milk,
My cat who sleeps
With his belly
Turned toward
The summer sky.
He loves the sun,
Its warmth like a hand.
He loves tuna cans
And milk cartons
With their dribble
Of milk. He loves
Mom when she rattles
The bag of cat food,
The brown nuggets
Raining into his bowl.
And my cat loves
Me, because I saved
Him from a dog,
Because I dressed him
In a hat and a cape
For Halloween,
Because I dangled
A sock of chicken skin
As he stood on his
Hind legs. I love mi gato,
Porque I found
Him on the fender
Of an abandoned car.
He was a kitten,
With a meow
Like the rusty latch
On a gate. I carried
Him home in the loop
Of my arms.
I poured milk
Into him, let him
Lick chunks of
Cheese from my palms,
And cooked huevo
After huevo
Until his purring
Engine kicked in
And he cuddled
Up to my father’s slippers.
That was last year.
This spring,
He’s excellent at sleeping
And no good
At hunting. At night
All the other cats
In the neighborhood
Can see him slink
Around the corner,
Or jump from the tree
Like a splash of
Milk. We lap up
His love and
He laps up his welcome.
ODE TO MY LIBRARY
It’s small
With two rooms
Of books, a globe
That I once
Dropped, some maps
Of the United States and México,
And a fish tank with
A blue fish that
Is always making jeta.
There are tables and chairs,
And a pencil sharpener
On the wall: a crayon is stuck
In it, but I didn’t do it.
It’s funny, but the
Water fountain
Is cooled by a motor,
And the librarian reads
Books with her
Glasses hanging
From her neck. If she
Put them on
She would see me
Studying the Incas
Who lived two steps
From heaven, way in the mountains.
The place says, “Quiet, please,”
But three birds
Talk to us
Loudly from the window.
What’s best is this:
A phonograph
That doesn’t work.
When I put on the headphones,
I’m the captain of a jet,
And my passengers
Are mis abuelitos
Coming from a dusty ranch
In Monterrey. I want
To fly them to California,
But then walk
Them to my library.
I want to show them
The thirty books I devoured
In the summer read-a-thon.
I want to show them
The mural I helped paint.
In the mural,
An Aztec warrior
Is standing on a mountain
With a machete
And a band of feathers
On his noble head.
I made the cuts
Of muscle on
His stomach
And put a boulder
Of strength in each arm.
He could gather
Enough firewood
With one fist.
He
could slice
Open a mountain
With that machete,
And with the wave of his arm
Send our enemies tumbling.
If I could fly,
I would bring
Mis abuelitos to California.
They would touch my hair
When I showed
Them my library:
The fish making jeta,
The globe that I dropped,
The birds fluttering
Their wings at the window.
They would stand me
Between them,
When I showed them
My thirty books,
And the cuts
On the warrior,
Our family of people.
ODE TO LA PIÑATA
It sways
In the tree
In the yard,
This paper pig
Bloated with
Candies, this
Piñata my father
Bought and hung
On a low branch.
I’m Rachel.
Today’s my birthday.
If six fingers
Go up, that’s how
Old I am. I’m going
To strike the
Piñata six times,
And then let my
Six guests swing
A broom at the pig.
Dad works the rope.
Mom blindfolds me
With a dish towel
And turns me six times,
My lucky number
For my lucky day.
When she stops,
I keep going,
Dizzy and sick —
Inside my belly
A merry-go-round
Of hot dog, chips,
Pink lemonade,
And cake with ice cream.
I stagger and swing.
I fall to a knee,
Rise, and swing again.
I’m more dizzy
Than when I started,
And then, wham,
The stick explodes
Against the piñata.
My friends laugh
And squeal, and I hit
It again, the first
Rain of candies.
I pull away
The dish towel, dazed
By the sunlight.
I give the stick
To a friend,
And more candies
Rain to the ground,
Kisses and jawbreakers,
Tootsie Rolls like
Chocolate worms.
My six friends
All take a turn,
And then baby brother
From his stroller
Whacks a plastic bat —
Candies rain down,
And by magic, one falls
Into his squealing mouth.
ODE TO A DAY IN THE COUNTRY
A dirty cloud of sheep
On the hill,
Their faces
Nibbling grass
Wet with rain.
The sheep drink
And eat, their buds
Of tongues
Gathering up the wet world.
If they looked up,
Their faces would be green
With blades of grass.
If they took a step,
Their hooves would
Bury the ant,
Little pilgrim of crust
And fallen bread.
We love sheep.
We love the fatness
Of wool, the itch
Of something warm to wear.
So man tugs on a sock,
And this is sheep.
So woman puts on a coat,
And this is sheep.
So child slips on a hat,
And this is sheep.
We’re closer to the country
Than we think,
As close as a snowy fingertip
Of glove on the table,
The frayed knot of a robe
In the closet,
The musty sleeve of a sweater
Sleeping with its arms crossed
In a drawer.
We love these sheep.
They stood for us,
Heavy with wool,
As they moved like a dirty cloud
Over the hill
Where the rain last fell.
ODE TO EL GUITARRÓN
All summer
It has stood
In the closet,
This guitarrón
That’s as big
As a washtub
Or a fat uncle.
Now that my
Mom and dad are gone,
I take it out
And run a finger
Of dust
From its throat.
I carry it
To the living room.
I place it
Between my legs
Like a cello
And thump
The strings.
Dust shakes
From the lamp.
Dust lets go of
My model airplane
On the TV.
Dust falls from
The ceiling
Where spiders breed
In shadowy corners.
I thump all
Five strings and
Scare my cat Negrito,
Who jumps from
The couch and onto
The windowsill
In the kitchen.
When he looks back,
I thump the guitarrón
With all the heart
Of five skinny fingers.
The cat falls
Like a paper sack
Of fruit.
I go to the window
And watch Negrito
Race across our lawn
And climb the fence
In two blurry leaps.
I thump some more,
A buzz of music
Rattling my chest.
The neighbor kids
With candies
In their mouths
Come running
To ask, “¿Qué es?”
“Música,” I tell them
With pride. “Do you want
Another song?” They
Nod their heads yes,
The blood of
Chocolate running
From the corners
Of their mouths.
I breathe in a lot
Of good fresh
Saturday air
And let my
Fingers run like
A wild crab
Across the strings.
The music rattles
The window and
Scares the cat out
Of one of its lives
As it drops
From the fence.
I play so hard
That our deaf neighbor
Señor Martínez
Shudders from
His sleep on the porch
Of fat-eared cacti.
He staggers over,
His cane tapping
The ground.
I notice a leaf
In his hair the color
Of wintry twigs.
His sweater is
Buttoned all wrong
And he could choke himself
If he’s not careful.
He says, “Dámelo,”
And I hand
Him the guitarrón
Through the window.
He starts to thump
The strings
So that the noise
Is real music
And my cat Negrito
Returns to sit
On the fence.
He sings, “Ay, ay,
Mi Vida …”
And the kids
Just stare at him.
They wipe their
Dirty faces
And say, “Qué bueno.”
Señor Martínez
&
nbsp; Staggers back
To his porch
For more sleep.
Negrito claws
His way back
Onto the fence,
His eyes shiny
As marbles.
When I start
To thump the strings
Again, my cat
Falls off, scared.
I think it was his ninth life.
I’ll find out later
When I hold out
A fist of cat food
And call
Here, kittykittykitty.
ODE TO FIREWORKS
On Fourth of July,
When it’s not yet dark,
I’m a diablito
With a sparkler.
I run around
The yard,
Chasing our rooster,
Who gives up
Feathers and screams.
Then it’s my turn
To run around
As my big brother,
With a haircut like devil horns,
Chases me with a firecracker.
“Ándale,” he yells,
“I’m gonna blow you up.”
Of course, he won’t —
He’s my brother
And I owe him two bucks.
So we each get
A fistful of sparklers,
Firecrackers,
A paper log cabin
That smokes and fizzes,
Rockets that shower sparks
About the height
Of the clothesline.
We get three seconds
Of pinwheels, whistling banshees,
Some cones and pyramids
That stink but won’t work,
And black pills
That vomit snakes
Of ash. I touch
The ash, and the snake crumbles
And won’t bite. Of course
When we finish,
It’s not yet dark.
We’re mad for not waiting.
I punch him in the arm
And he punches me back.
We climb onto the roof,
My brother first,
And we watch the sky
For rockets. Planes fly by,
Blinking red lights.
A gnat buzzes my ear.
A TV goes on in the neighbor’s house.
We wait and wait,
And then they come —
The fireworks from kids
Who saved up for night.
ODE TO WEIGHT LIFTING
Tony eats apples
On Saturday morning,
Two for each arm,
And one for the backs
Of his calves.
He’s twelve
And a weight lifter in his garage.
He bites into an apple,
And, chewing,
He curls weights —
One, two, three …
His face reddens,
And a blue vein
Deepens on his neck —
Four, five, six …
Sweat inches down
His cheek. A curl of
Hair falls in his face —
Seven, eight, nine …
He grunts and strains —
Ten, eleven, twelve!
Tony curls his age,
And he would curl his weight
Of 83 pounds, but he
