Bag with Cherry Print

He’s devoted his life,

to collecting the past,

antiques in every corner

of his house.

Drink out of antiques,

read out-of-print books,

use antique appliances,

framed antique art,

makes his walls worth

hundreds of thousands. 

Ironically,

the past haunts him,

he wants to escape,

the memories,

of abandonement, violence,

loss, death, racism, and the wonder

and confusion of a six-year old,

en la frontera, then travelling

around the country in migrant camps. 

When I sold my house

and moved into my condominium,

he cried.

“Apartments are dangerous,” he said,

wiping tears and sweat from his face,

“you don’t know who lives there, and

you see terrible things. I don’t want

the boys to experience that.”

“But it’s a condo Dad,” as I thought

of my underground parking, central AC,

pool and gym. 

“It’s dangerous m’ija, it’s dangerous.

You don’t know the things I’ve seen,

where so many people live together.”

This weekend, before I left,

he brought me this heavy antique tray,

inlayed with abalone, with ornate handles. 

I will add this to my collection of items

he has gifted me in the last year. 

I put on my lipstick, fix my hair, put

on my designer sunglasses, and get ready to

leave. 

He walks toward me,

big, ole’ white grocery bag

with a cherry print in hand,

and starts to put the tray in.  

“Dad, I’ll just carry the tray

on the train like that.”

“No, no. You need something to carry it in.”

“No really. It’s cramping my style.  Look how

sharp I look and you want me to carry this

ugly bag with a cherry print? The tray is pretty.

It looks cool just like that.”

He wouldn’t have any of it.

I got in his truck

and put the bag on my lap,

and as I sat on the bench,

waiting for the train,

I discreetly took the tray out

of the bag,

folded the cherry bag

and put it

in my backpack.  

The Sizzle

The Sizzle

I can speak for

at least

five generations

of Mexican children,

who know the sizzle,

by heart. 

Whether you were in the corral

playing with sticks in the dirt,

or gathering leña for the next day’s stove,

or sitting in the kitchen in Whittier,

cleaning beans,

or sitting outside on the steps,

with your ghetto-ass friends,

talking shit,

or reclined on the designer sofa,

IPad in hand, playing Roadblocks,

we all knew/know,

the sizzle. 

It means,

that someone who loves us,

even if their version of love,

doesn’t meet our standard of love,

is making us

some kind of

sopita. 

Wherever we are,

as soon as we hear the sizzle,

we know what happened just before,

someone was frying rice or noodles,

and we knew what was happening in that moment,

someone was pouring water over sizzling noodles,

and we knew that now,

the person was adding tomato sauce, chicken bouillon,

maybe some potatoes, perhaps half of an onion,

and they were bringing it to a slow boil,

until the noodles were tender

and our sopita,

was ready to be served,

with warm, corn tortillas. 

Once, when I was in the jungles of Petén, Guatemala,

this Dutch vato says to me,

“So what do Mexicans do to their rice?”

And instantly, I said, “We fry it.”

“Like the Chinese,” he says. 

“No.” I casually answer,

“We fry it, like the last five generations,

of Mexicans have fried it.”