I Remember Her by Kathleen Fellows

I Remember Her by Kathleen Fellows

I remember mornings of being late

to my class that held the most importance,

Japanese with Chaylee and Emily.

We made fun of words and loved others

but could never catch onto the writing.

The characters were indigestible,

much like the cheap crackers she once brought in

that sweet and adorable instructor

who took an English surname, kept the first.

She made the seven forty-five class say,

“Good morning,” the later, “Good afternoon.”

We weren’t lying to her. She made that.

My least favorite part (besides the writing)

were the object counters, oh the counters

how they followed no one’s rules, what rebels.

The rest of the language was so structured,

how could those alternate number exist?

It gave English a good run until this.

I remember tondemonai desu,

a phrase she often had us chant over.

A phrase I can’t remember the meaning

but know in what situation to use,

when someone compliments a trait of yours

because modesty is priority

in her country across the pacific.

I remember kasa ga nai and

the rest of the songs she taught us to sing,

not just the melody but the meaning.

It’s not because she was cute and friendly

but because she taught us, which is now rare.

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.