Poems by C.R. Gonzalez
Ceviche
My mother says
lemons when she means
limes. In Mexican,
they are the same.
When I hold
the bulbous yellow
orb against its verdant,
little sister, she claims
to see no difference.
My wife says Spanish
holds so many
funny words, would you like
to guess what they are?
Tecolote, she whispers.
Paragua. Stop. Water.
She says to break
it down.
I guess beaver.
Umbrella, actually.
I chop cilantro.
Coriander in the
language of empire.
My mom and wife speak
in impressionistic swells,
rolling tongues,
wide mouths,
at the kitchen table.
I chop cebolla, tomaté.
Lemon and lime.
Literally both.
Pull at the sinews
of packaged hiva.
Imitation
crab meat.
Laughter erupts
at the table.
They are folded over
like napkins. Gasping.
Un beaver, they cry. Un beaver.
Funnier in Spanish
Jorge’s knuckle skin is worn
out by steel wool
scraping the plancha
clean of burnt tortilla,
bits of hardened pork belly.
Sweat on his fore-
head, sheening the impossible
brown, never dries.
He says he’s funnier in Spanish.
In Spanish he commands a room.
In Spanish his friends, who are many,
Tell him he should be
on Sabado Gigante.
In Spanish he has
drug problems.
In Spanish he loves
drinking, doesn’t know
when he will stop.
In English he has
been sober for 7 years.
In Spanish he was in a gang.
Would rob people, spit on them even,
break dance on broken down
boxes from the overnight
shift at the mercado,
drink until morning.
In English he has
twin girls, they practice
saying I love you
in unison,
but resign to te amo alone.
In Spanish Jorge was youthful.
Now, in English, in the present
tense, he works this kitchen
every night,
can’t see past
a dirty plancha,
broken skin.
He walks into a stranger’s
house, where he rents a room,
for his family,
smelling of Fabuloso,
fried food, sobaco,
drops to his knees
prays to an American
god in a broken language
to one day be funny
in English.
C.R. Gonzalez (he/him) was born and raised in East Los Angeles. He currently lives in Long Beach, where he earned his MFA, with his wife and hairless cat.
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