En la voz de mi padre By Adela Najarro

Morning arrives. Coffee, then something

sweet. Sometimes the sweat of a woman.

Sometimes pan dulce. Sometimes chasing tail

of a good deal. A bathroom to remodel.

A kitchen floor to lay. Esa mujer that still

looks good in a bikini. Si yo soy

mujeriego. Every flower blooms bright.

I’m a good father. Soy buena gente. My father

didn’t even know who I was. I know

all my children. And their mothers.

Even the one who doesn’t know he is mine.

He’s got the same dimpled chin. I saw him

dancing at a wedding. He looked just like me.

I waited. I waited for them all to call. Adelita

asked, Do you want me to call a priest? ¿Para qué?

Yo no creo en eso. Then breath stopped.

Startled. The one molecule of me broke down

into air, space, to time without sweat.

The breeze. Outside. There was a tree.

I moved leaves. I rose into cloud. Then

the weight of water. Heavy, I fell as rain.