kidding me
Not like on google maps from Missouri to Utah,
but on a taped-up piece of paper with rippled highlights
and a dizzy six-piece grid, Argentina begins all at once,
a red list of tangled names from people avoiding
or feeding us. Calles and streets.
—Cual street, my companion says in her Latina Spanglish.
—Zalaya! I say, smoothing our area map.
I remember the children, brown and running like wild horses.
I forgot the smell, a cacophony of Peruvian cocinas.
I forgot the doors, each thin, pocked with holes like cheese swiss.
I forgot how small the “houses” are.
—Can we share a message?
—No, gracias.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
[Knock, wait, next door.]
—Podemos compartir un mensaje?
—Todavía no.
[Knock, wait, next door.]
—Can we…
—Si Dios quiere!
But the young girl. That I don’t remember overlooking
until we invite her to listen.
We’ve crossed Rivadavia, 25 de Mayo, Mansilla and Sarmiento,
belting out the hymns we know. “O Creaciones del Senor,”
your favorite street song, seconded only by “Tengo Gozo
en mi Alma Hoy.” We alter the words, singing Tengo hambre
en mi alma hoy and remember the large Elder who loved to sing
about la semilla que hoy sembramos.
But crossing the train tracks, we don’t feel like harmonizing.
La gente rough and jagged, smoking drugs and stray dogs
curled at their feet, the bottom of our feet sweaty like bars of soap,
circles of trash curled into the metal tracks and pebbles;
“que bueno”—el tren will send them skyward like fall leaves.
Even more graffiti-showered walls grappling with pale English words, more fences and
more cobblestone streets or tile sidewalks with women mopping the concrete and
hosing down the tiles. We’ll visit Hermana Mansilla, eat Papa la Huancaína, Lomo
Saltado, Ají de Gallina, Ceviche, y más.
I know when I fly home everything will melt into English. Vamos, says my companion
here; at home they’ll say Let’s go.
Me esta cargando, the Portenos proclaim. There they’ll say
You’ve got to be kidding me.
