Art on Wednesdays
Papi, do you remember the time I spilled the cashews? /
Scattered kidney shaped nuts strewn across the floor. /
Did you sweep? or get on your old knees to clean up the mess? /
I was only a kid. Yet I recall your responsible warning; /
you know risk and consequence. /
but I was stubborn. Taurus rising. /
Astrology’s not hereditary but /
Mom’s voice says: She gets it from you! /
The milky white ceramic counter was too high, and the container too heavy. /
I’ve never had much power in my arms. /
and I’ve learned from you that we carry our strength in our vocal cords. /
So, did you yell on that Wednesday night? /
Do you remember my big brown eyes welling up in that cornflower blue kitchen? I don’t. /
I only remember the cascading of another accident, /
a tidal wave of little beans, /
another mistake by little me. /
...I actually think I cried before you could find a broom. /
and for once, not because of the way your voice would boom /
but for the inescapable kernels of shame sprawled around the room. /
During after-school trips to the market: /
On the final aisle we pick out warm gold rolls of pan—which means bread. /
Like “¡Apúrate!” means hurry up, /
“Cochinitos” are pink porky plush toys on the dashboard of /
Grandpa Pancho’s little red truck, /
and “Sana, sana colita de rana” apparently mentions a frog. /
Because being a second generation immigrant de México never required direct translation. /
You sprinkled culture into my childhood /
like the red peppercorn you smash up for Menudo in the owl-shaped grinder, /
I could always taste it... but if I hadn’t thought about it, it could go unnoticed, /
(white)washed out. /
Papi, I wear your pullover sweatshirts to school. /
I steal socks from your wardrobe. /
Our satirical sayings are similar. /
I sit in the passenger seat now. /
We talk about my dog––your dog /
our dog (...your dog) /
and politics /
and food. /
You taught me how to slice my Granny Smiths so that I would never cut my /
fingers. /
(I’m sorry that I don’t follow your form.) /
...But you’re home from your meeting! Look at the old photo I found? /
[My eyes and nose are both buttons of equal size /
A squishy baby in footy pajamas sits in your evergreen recliner, /
in a backwards baseball cap, too big for my head. /
I hold your television remote and newspaper in my lap.] /
Now I hold out the old print with your navy sleeve dangling from my wrist: /
Papi! Look at me! I am like you!
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