Cribbage by Megan
Windom
I remember my father’s
cribbage board
with its two tracks
that lead to one-twenty.
Red & green
curving around each other
to ensure we would
follow our own paths.
Four small pegs in
two colors of metal
& counting runs,
fifteens, & thirty-ones.
I remember his
frustration with me,
not for an inability
to play
but because I learned
too quickly & won.
He told me I was just
like my mother,
getting lucky with
the cards I put down,
but saw I was really
catching on.
I remember going out
to breakfast,
not thanks to any
spectacular food,
but for the attention
afforded me.
Over hot chocolate
and Bloody Marys
we talked briefly
about my brothers, just
to point out how I
was so different.
I remember waiting as
a small child,
anticipating his
return from work
where he would chase
me, catch me, & toss me
on top of the plush
blankets of their bed,
covering me with
tickles up until
an urgent escape led
to the bathroom.
I remember a summer
wedding day.
He grabbed my hand,
asked if I was nervous
& looked
comfortable when I told him “No.”
Thinking about that
day, I’m pretty sure
he gave me away to
the only man
that could make him
willing to part with me.
But I prefer to think
of him today.
A man who has had to
face his demons
& suffered
through his own personal grief.
Despite challenges he
still manages
to eclipse the
distresses with humor
& encourage us
along our own paths.
_________________________________
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.
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