Banana, pineapple, mango
for breakfast before school.
On days we’re running late,
just the mango,
cecause mamá knows
it’s my favorite.
Afternoon naps next to Danny;
Lulled to sleep by his game’s sounds
off gunshots and bombs and footprints
on gravel that I can hear
even now.
And then a soft nudge to show me the butterflies
that he knows
are my favorite.
Mamá does my hair
each Tuesday for Spanish class;
Two dutch braids, tight
and straight down my back
‘cause it’s my favorite way.
and mamá boils special leaves in water
and pours them over my head
to help my hair grow
because she knows long hair
is my favorite.
Danny shows me YouTube
videos of rappers,
motorcycles, fancy cars
of Messi and Ronaldo,
Try Not To Laugh, the Best of
The Simpsons, or FreeFire,
and baseball,
my favorite.
Piled in the car, Mamá driving,
winding through our valley,
turns up the radio for Sin Pijama,
which she knows is my favorite.
Saturday mornings of Uno
on our roof.
Danny brings the cushions
from the couch and we sit,
him in the shade and me in the sun,
singing Changes and Joana.
He plays them for me,
knowing they’re my favorites.
Coffee with milk
and Butter on my sandwiches.
My bedroom windows open
to let the breeze in,
and running to watch the novella.
Lipstick that match my shoes,
the view of our valley from the top of the hill,
going down into Carpuela,
and mango batidos in Juncal.
I’m on the roof,
stretched out in the sun, reading.
Mamá comes up with freshly cut mango,
laughing, calling me her queen,
and I dangle my feet over the edge and look out
over the valley.
The deep-orange mango in my mouth,
so sweet. I can taste it
even now.
