Leavings
They sleep in one large room:
Sonia, Tin, Zaida, Hectico, Roly.
And I cut through Peralta’s Backyard
to their tiny apartment, where at night
Hectico and I find our way to the roof
to count the stars.
Zaida is almost fifteen,
and Sonia and I take the bus downtown
every Sunday to collect the discarded ice cream
cups to hold the pasta salad Sonia will make
for her birthday party.
Mother doesn’t think we’ll be able to go
to see her dance in her long, pink dress
as she smiles her way into womanhood.
Aunt Velia has called us to America.
Mother says that means I’ll never again
sit on Sonia’s tar-papered roof,
that Uncle Armando will move into our house,
and we’ll be able to send gum in our letters
like Aunt Velia does now,
that the twins will learn English
before they remember these first
few years.
In dreams Aunt Velia waves,
signaling for us to come,
her tall body wrapped in an airmail
envelope, like a cloak.
Mother waves back, clutching the twins
in her arms, and begs me to hurry,
but I hesitate, knowing Sonia has had
a slow day.
by Sandra M. Castillo
from Paper Dance-55 Latino Poets
Persea Books, New York, 1995