With a Star in My Hand

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I thank God for poetry.

  I am grateful to my husband and the rest of our family, especially my mother, who taught me to love poetry.

  Special thanks to the memory of my abuelita Fefa and bisabuelita Ana Dominga for their reverence for poetry, especially Rubén Darío’s. I am grateful to Carol Zapata-Whelan, Emily Aguilo-Pérez, Alma Flor Ada, Isabel Campoy, David Rojas, and Claire Annette Noland.

  Profound gratitude to my agent, Michelle Humphrey; my wonderful editor, Reka Simonsen; and the whole Atheneum publishing team.

  For Alma Flor Ada and Isabel Campoy, heroes of bilingual literature; and for all the heroic poets of the future

  ¡Momotombo se alzaba lírico y soberano,

  yo tenía quince años: una estrella en la mano!

  Momotombo rose up lyrical and free,

  I was fifteen years old: a star in my hand!

  —Rubén Darío

  ABANDONED

  My first memory was one I could not understand

  until years later: playing with towering animals

  under a palm tree, all around me gentle eyes,

  feathery green fronds,

  and sticky tidbits of fruit

  stuck to cow lips.

  The cattle were smelly

  and friendly,

  just as hungry

  for palm fruit

  as I was

  for milk.

  Where did Mamá go?

  I was too young for a sense of time,

  but somehow I expected to be exiled forever

  in that musical tangle of thumping hoofs

  and clackety horns, my own wailing voice

  adding a flutelike magic

  to the noise.

  LOST

  When I remember abandonment,

  all I feel is a sense of my smallness.

  The roaming bulls ignored me.

  I must have been too tiny

  to seem

  truly human.

  Muddy legs, grubby face.

  If I’d stayed in that cow world

  long enough, I might have grown

  hoofs, horns,

  two more legs,

  and a swishing tail.

  WILD RHYMES

  Jaguars, pumas, and other big cats,

  poisonous snakes and vampire bats . . .

  when Mamá abandoned me in a jungle,

  did she think about all the fearful creatures

  or was she merely offering me a green gift,

  the sneaky hunt

  for shy

  sly

  strangely

  prowling

  rhymes

  to help me pass safely

  through a dangerous

  wilderness

  called

  time?

  AM I AN ANIMAL YET?

  With the rhythmic music of the herd

  rattling through my busy mind,

  I tried to moo like a cow,

  coo like a dove,

  then holler

  and bellow,

  just a lost and lonely little boy

  whose human voice rose up

  in an effort to transform

  beastly

  emotions.

  No, I was not an animal,

  but yes, I felt grateful

  to four-legged creatures

  for the lullabies they sang

  to green trees

  and blue sky.

  Someday I will sing too,

  instead of moaning.

  FOUND

  My mother’s friend found me.

  He was an angry farmer who spanked

  my bottom.

  Thwack!

  Smack!

  The crackling shuffle of rustling hoofs

  sounded like a dance, as my cow friends

  saw their chance to escape, leaving me alone

  with the shouting stranger

  who tossed me across

  a mule’s broad back,

  where I bumped and swayed

  all the way

  to a palm-thatched hut . . .

  but Mamá was not there

  in the little house.

  She had gone

  away.

  LIKE A BIRD

  Black eyes.

  Slender hands.

  Dark hair.

  Waterfall laughter.

  Trying to picture

  my lost mother

  has become a race

  of entrancing words

  that gallop

  faster

  and faster.

  Did Mamá fly into the sky

  like a winged being,

  or is she alive

  and hiding?

  BIG MOUTH

  A bearded man on a spirited horse

  rescued me from the gloomy farmer.

  We thundered far across the green hills

  of Honduras, hoofbeats making me feel

  like a centaur, as we galloped over the border

  to Nicaragua—my homeland—but not

  to the small room in the back of a store

  in the little town of Metapa

  where I was born.

  Instead, we ended up in a rambling old

  horseshoe-shaped house in the city of León,

  where I was finally told that Mamá wanted me

  to live HERE

  with strangers.

  I soon learned that the bearded rescuer

  was my great-uncle, called El Bocón

  by all who knew him.

  Big Mouth, such a suitable nickname

  for a man who tells tall tales

  in a booming, larger-than-life

  story voice.

  He speaks of steep mountains with icy peaks,

  and of gallant knights who battle ogres and dragons,

  and of smoothly rolling hills in distant lands,

  countries so remote

  and amazing

  that I can hardly absorb

  the fascinating range

  of exotic names.

  Has he really traveled so much?

  France? California?

  Soon, when I grow up,

  I plan to roam the earth

  and be a Big Mouth too,

  speaking truthfully

  whenever I choose,

  never caring

  if anyone

  is offended.

  Any harsh fact is so much better

  than telling lies like a tricky mother

  who pretends

  she’ll just be gone

  for a little while.

  ADOPTED

  El Bocón and his wife,

  my great-aunt Bernarda,

  decide to make me their son.

  He’s huge and loud, she’s small and flowery,

  with curly hair, a delicate voice,

  and an eager way of making children

  join all her songs, parties,

  and prayers.

  Living in their vast, echoing home,

  I soon learn the essential skill of storytelling

  along with horsemanship, hunting, fishing,

  and wild fruit harvesting.

  The only art I never master

  is convincing others that I don’t really care

  how

  and why

  Mamá vanished.

  SO MANY STORYTELLERS

  The city is musical

  with church bells

  and chirping birds,

  heels tapping

  on cobblestones,

  and lush green gardens

  that grow so fast that every morning

  brings new blossoms, each with its own

  enchanted fragrance.
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  El Bocón is not the only one who fills

  the humid air

  with ribbons of words

  that seem to draw pictures. . . .

  Serapia is the cook who tells tales she learned

  from her africano ancestors, and Goyo the gardener

  speaks of our shared native heritage,

  my brown skin and black hair

  just as indio as his.

  Was Mamá a mestiza of half-Matagalpan descent,

  or did she belong to the Pipil Nahua,

  Maya, Chontal, Niquirano, Chorotega,

  Miskito, or some other proud forest nation?

  When I sit in church, the stories I hear

  are even more improbable than El Bocón’s

  fanciful tales of foreign lands.

  The priest speaks of a man

  swallowed by a fish,

  a boy with a slingshot

  who battles a giant,

  burning bushes,

  and a talking donkey—but no one

  ever mentions children left behind

  in cow pastures, so maybe reality

  is the strangest,

  most mystery-filled

  terrible

  true story

  of all.

  MY NAME IS A STATUE, BUT MY MIND ROAMS FREE

  I almost melt in the church’s smoky heat,

  where a scented mist of incense rises,

  cradling murmured words

  as we sing all together,

  before stepping out

  into the blaze of sunlight.

  Tía Bernarda leads me across the scorching plaza,

  and when I complain, I’m lifted by the strong arms

  of Serapia, but I’m too big to be carried

  like a baby, so I squirm free, using my liberty

  to gaze into the eyes of a marble horseman

  who is said to be my godfather Félix, the man

  who gave me his name

  and who would have adopted me

  if he hadn’t died and turned into stone.

  Does everyone who has ever been alive

  end up motionless in a peaceful park

  sooner or later?

  Apparently yes, because before I know

  what has happened, there goes El Bocón too,

  buried in the graveyard

  under a headstone

  without any clear explanation

  other than Serapia’s quiet sigh,

  as she says así pasa con los viejos—

  that’s what happens to the old.

  If life is a story

  about the passing of time,

  I think God should make

  all the sad parts

  rhyme.

  HOME

  Without my great-uncle

  we’re suddenly poor,

  so the dusty old rooms

  and orchard-like courtyard

  should feel solemn and silent, but no—

  Serapia continues to chatter as she cooks,

  and Goyo still weaves legends while he weeds

  between fruit trees.

  Serene moments are spent reading

  under the jícaro gourd tree, beside la granada,

  the pomegranate with ruby-red seeds

  that offer such a messy adventure,

  their brilliant hue

  one of glittering gems

  in a pirate’s treasure chest,

  the taste making me think of distance—a ship

  sailing off into the sunset, my hands so juicy

  that a few pages of each precious book

  end up stained, as if the story has absorbed

  bright light from my own glowing

  daydreams.

  MY TREE FRIENDS

  The trunk of the jícaro is black,

  its leaves small and feathery,

  the gourds dry and useful,

  each one a big

  wingless bird shape

  that can be carved into a bowl

  or musical instrument.

  The pomegranate is beautiful too,

  with its gnarled wood, and jewel-like fruit.

  When I sit down to read in the shade

  of tree friends, I see a row of hammocks

  and rocking chairs, but I prefer earth,

  the natural home of growing roots

  and rhymed verses.

  NIGHT

  By daylight, I love the outdoors garden-heart

  at the center of this vast house, but after dark

  even the bedrooms

  are scary.

  Bernarda’s old mother tells stories of horror.

  Serapia and Goyo share ghostly tales too.

  Owls rustle and call from up above on the roof.

  Mice scurry

  from corner

  to corner

  like four-footed

  messengers

  of terror.

  If only I could forget Mamá’s disappearance.

  It would be so much easier to fall asleep

  peacefully.

  CHANGING NAMES

  I have always been Félix Rubén García Sarmiento,

  but now Bernarda no longer wants me to carry

  the name of my godfather—that motionless

  marble statue

  in the park.

  Suddenly, I am expected to think of myself

  as Rubén Darío.

  It’s a change so strange

  that it feels like just one more eerie story,

  as if my old self is suddenly

  ghostly.

  Félix meant happy, lucky, blessed.

  Rubén simply means look, it’s a son—but I’m not

  the real son of this house, just a substitute,

  the nephew, more trouble

  than I’m worth.

  FRIGHTENED BY GROWN-UPS

  The stories told by adults

  are about a hairy hand

  that walks the streets at night

  like a spider,

  and a headless priest

  who wanders all over the city,

  and a witch with cruel laughter,

  and ordinary people who fly away

  high above rooftops.

  Whenever the smell of sulfur

  rises and pours down over this house,

  I want to believe that it’s just the odor

  of bathwater in a volcanic hot springs,

  but old people

  keep warning me

  about fiery lava

  and other

  volcanic

  evils.

  LIGHTNESS

  Pesadillas—heavy nightmares,

  the weight of rude questions

  from visitors who ask

  why my mother

  left me.

  This happens almost every evening

  at las tertulias, Bernarda’s lively gatherings

  of shopkeepers and other gossiping adults.

  Curious grown-ups should know

  that furious orphans don’t have any answers

  to questions about wandering parents.

  So I lie down

  wounded

  by words

  and wake up

  with nosebleeds

  headaches

  fears

  but words are also my sturdy refuge

  by day, in merciful sunlight, beneath

  the gourd tree,

  beside the pomegranate.

  So I read, in the morning,

  after each nightmare—

  soothing poems,

  glowing adventure stories,

  and radiant tales

  of not-quite-rhymed

  poetic wishes.

  SCHOOL

  I taught myself to read when I was three,

  but now there are teachers to add confusion,

  sometimes a poet who spanks me

  for reciting rhymes out of turn,

  and at other times a gentle india,

 
; a woman

  who bakes cookies

  and refuses to punish

  anyone.

  Don Quixote, the Bible, horror tales, and comedies—

  I never grow tired of exploring the endless variety

  of natural and supernatural stories.

  Math, geography, and grammar

  also have their orderly place in my school day,

  but poetry arrives in its own way,

  wild like a hurricane,

  a storm of turbulent wind

  and ocean waves!

  FIRST VERSES

  The sisters of the bishop sell candies

  in the shapes of birds and animals,

  treats so delicious that I learn

  to trade skillfully rhymed words

  about those sweet creations

  for sugary treasures,

  which I gobble

  with pleasure.

  Sometimes the sisters

  show off my poems

  about doves and lambs

  to other children,

  as examples of work

  that deserves a reward,

  but I don’t think of poetry

  as labor, when each rhyme

  about a parrot

  or a panther

  is so much

  fun!

  A BURST OF VERSES!

  During Easter week, the streets

  are decorated with arches

  made from branches, green cascades

  of coconut fronds and banana leaves,

  along with blossoms from el corozo,

  the vegetable ivory palm tree

  that has pale-hearted nuts

  I can carve

  into tiny statuettes

  of hummingbirds,

  the wings just as smooth and white

  as real elephant tusks.