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