Cien by Melissa Campana

Cien

I remember cien. I was the first one

In first grade to reach the big one hundred,

Counting from cero in my Spanish class.

Mrs. Sampere was so impressed by it,

That she called home to talk to my parents

Born and raised en España, my father

Took pride in my Spanish abilities.

The first memory of earning their praise.

I remember begging ayúdame!

When I was separated from my mom

En España and needed strangers’ help.

“¿Qué necesitas niña?” asked the men.

“No puedo encontrar a mi madre!”

With the men’s help I finally found her.

Tears falling from my eyes, and hers of course,

As we embraced after the longest hour.

And I remember el pollo Inglés

The Spanish version of a childhood game

Very similar to red light, green light.

I played with Lucia and Pablito

One day Kathinka even played with us.

She was the Norwegian girl who later

Became my pen pal. But, well, we lost touch…

Most of all I remember te amo.

While the moonlit waves carried the jellies,

And crickets played their Spanish lullaby,

And friends laughed and played el pollo Inglés,

Antonio softly spoke in my ear,

“No me olvides Americana.

Te amo. Vienes a verme pronto.”

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I Remember Lotería by JACOB SAENZ

I remember nights of playing

Lotería w/Mom & Big Manny

as a way to learn the Spanish they spoke

to each other but not to their kids

who caught on to certain words

like cállate, cerveza, chicharrón;

little nuggets I ate up

like the pinto beans we used

instead of the blue chips

Mom kept in her Bingo bag

she carried every Friday night

when her & Tia Shirley

went to the Moose Lodge,

her hair & coat reeking

w/the smoke of all who lost.

   

I remember El Borracho,

the man always holding a bottle

& about to fall over yet never does

like Big Manny stumbling home

late at night after a payday,

breath & belly full of beer,

who one time took a piss

in our bedroom.

I remember La Garza,

not for the heron it is

but cousin Tony & his kids,

nights of sleepovers & pizza,

PlayStation on a 40-inch TV,

the night he & Lil Jesse sneaked

bumps of coke in the bathroom

& I rubbed numb my teenage teeth.

I remember El Musico,

not the chubby man clutching his guitarra

but my brother Dave loading crates

of records & a dual turntable case

like a coffin into the back of a van,

the same set I hit my back on at ten

when I fell out of the top bunk bed.

But I prefer to remember La Sirena

back when her breasts were free

of the seashells she now holds

to cover them in water so blue

cold, her scales so red,

her name clung to the tongue

like dulce de leche.