Ekiwah Adler-Belendez – Ⅰ
Eusebio
He knows what I’m going to have for dinner
even before I say it. He is Mexican.
He adds a little chile to my eggs,
making me a vegetable omlet with peppermint,
broccoli and roasted black onions—
he works at Simon’s Rock college.
We can’t find horchata or atole
or tlacayos or requeson
yet he discovers a way to give a twist to each flavor
to remind us of our home.
I ask for hot chocolate
and he prepares it with water instead of milk
so we can feel the euphoric bitterness,
the spirited acquiescent fire of chocolate.
He is a humble warrior
bravely sacrificing his love
for his family
and his country
so his children
can have material luxuries
and a good education.
I chatter away with the others in English
I read the last days of Socrates
and even appear to be at ease
in this amber wave of grain
yet in an incognito gesture
we are comrades
exiled by choice
from the place of our birth.
We bear together
the weight of a twin pain—
a private language.
He sees his family in Mexico
every three years
for a couple of months.
His children wait for him.
They want for their papa
to take them riding on a plane.
They want to know what it feels
to be sustained by the air.
When they meet him in the flesh
they are too shy to say hello.
Memories take time to travel to the present
when they are conducted through the thick rubber wires
of the past.
He knows them and does not.
The features of his kids
quickly outdate the pictures
inside his head.
Over the phone
his son just turned thirteen.
?cuando vienes papa?
when are you coming papa?
I imagine being away from them
feels like moving a missing arm
only to find it is
and is not there.
Maybe Eusebio finds contentment here.
Maybe I’m exaggerating. After all
he listens to pop songs from this country
to try to learn English. I give him a new word every day.
As if this language was a satisfying delicacy
he rolls each one in his mouth
His discreet grin reminds me
of the productive silence
that comes the instant after
a heavy rain.
He can’t talk to any of the students
because he was accused of harassing
a heavy blond cook that worked in our kitchen.
He wanted to tell everyone that she was wrong
he wanted to ask: what have I done to indicate that?
but his words were corrupted by translation.
We talk to each other in our flowery tongue now,
we thank the corn maker that has baked our skin
and while the North-American students wait for the food to be
displayed
they hear us talking in Spanish
and for a few moments
they experience themselves as foreigners.
He knows what I’m going to have for dinner
even before I say it. He is Mexican.
He adds a little chile to my eggs,
making me a vegetable omlet with peppermint,
broccoli and roasted black onions—
he works at Simon’s Rock college.
We can’t find horchata or atole
or tlacayos or requeson
yet he discovers a way to give a twist to each flavor
to remind us of our home.
I ask for hot chocolate
and he prepares it with water instead of milk
so we can feel the euphoric bitterness,
the spirited acquiescent fire of chocolate.
He is a humble warrior
bravely sacrificing his love
for his family
and his country
so his children
can have material luxuries
and a good education.
I chatter away with the others in English
I read the last days of Socrates
and even appear to be at ease
in this amber wave of grain
yet in an incognito gesture
we are comrades
exiled by choice
from the place of our birth.
We bear together
the weight of a twin pain—
a private language.
He sees his family in Mexico
every three years
for a couple of months.
His children wait for him.
They want for their papa
to take them riding on a plane.
They want to know what it feels
to be sustained by the air.
When they meet him in the flesh
they are too shy to say hello.
Memories take time to travel to the present
when they are conducted through the thick rubber wires
of the past.
He knows them and does not.
The features of his kids
quickly outdate the pictures
inside his head.
Over the phone
his son just turned thirteen.
?cuando vienes papa?
when are you coming papa?
I imagine being away from them
feels like moving a missing arm
only to find it is
and is not there.
Maybe Eusebio finds contentment here.
Maybe I’m exaggerating. After all
he listens to pop songs from this country
to try to learn English. I give him a new word every day.
As if this language was a satisfying delicacy
he rolls each one in his mouth
His discreet grin reminds me
of the productive silence
that comes the instant after
a heavy rain.
He can’t talk to any of the students
because he was accused of harassing
a heavy blond cook that worked in our kitchen.
He wanted to tell everyone that she was wrong
he wanted to ask: what have I done to indicate that?
but his words were corrupted by translation.
We talk to each other in our flowery tongue now,
we thank the corn maker that has baked our skin
and while the North-American students wait for the food to be
displayed
they hear us talking in Spanish
and for a few moments
they experience themselves as foreigners.
