The Wild Book Read online

  Trouble

  Feo, feo.

  The chattering parrot

  is no longer wild.

  It lives on our roof

  and calls everyone ugly,

  even grownups

  and honored guests.

  I am in trouble

  for teaching insults

  to such a smart bird.

  While I am in trouble,

  I daydream

  to keep my thoughts

  bright like the parrot,

  instead of hideous

  like my fears.

  Uncertainly

  I imagine escaping

  on Papá's fastest horse.

  Where would I go?

  To the tower,

  just like my sisters.

  The tower is on a farm

  where long ago,

  two wealthy brothers

  competed to see who

  was stronger.

  One built a tower,

  and the other dug a well

  just as deep as the height

  of the tower.

  A wandering woman

  poured magic into the well,

  but she cursed the tower

  with evil enchantments,

  because it was said

  to be used as a watchtower

  for catching runaway slaves,

  or as a prison tower

  for punishing

  rebellious wives.

  When I daydream,

  I feel certain that I will never

  marry a man who keeps captives.

  But there are so many types

  of men, and types of towers—

  how will I know?

  Can a tower of fear

  ever be transformed

  into a tower

  of hope?

  Beastly

  When I am finally allowed

  out of the house, I walk

  down to the green river,

  where my brothers

  are trying to wrestle

  a huge caimán

  that looks like a crocodile

  or a bumpy green dragon

  with sharp, vicious teeth.

  I wander too close,

  and the beast snaps

  at my ankle.

  One swallow could take

  my whole leg!

  My brothers shout,

  and instantly I know

  that they will tell Mamá,

  and I will be in trouble

  all over again.

  I am so scared that later,

  when I am alone

  with my wild book,

  I pay attention

  to all the tiniest sounds

  as I struggle to write a list

  of the long names

  of all my beastly

  brothers and sisters.

  José de Jesús is the oldest.

  He swears he will kill

  the caimán.

  Pedro Eulogio brags too,

  but Julio Alberto

  and Darío Leonelo

  are far too young,

  and baby Rubén

  can't even talk yet.

  He just chirps funny tunes

  like a new-hatched bird.

  Mariana

  and María del Carmen

  and Juana Quirina

  and Leonila Hortensia

  and Etelvina María

  never brag

  about courage

  or battling

  dragonlike beasts.

  All they do is taunt me:

  Fefa, Fefa, blind, stupid, fea ...

  Tame sisters

  can be even crueler

  than wild brothers.

  Scribbling

  Trying to forget my troubles,

  I sit alone, jotting another list

  of complicated names

  in my wild book.

  I spell my own long name:

  Josefa de la Caridad Uría Peña.

  I sound out the name of our farm:

  Goatzacoalco.

  I pour out the name of the river:

  Manatí.

  I print the name of the town:

  Trinidad.

  I whisper the name

  of my favorite daydream:

  Happiness.

  Patience

  As soon as I realize

  that I have written my own

  long name, along with those

  of all my brothers and sisters,

  I begin to wonder—how

  did I learn?

  When I write slowly,

  learning just seems to grow

  out of patience.

  The loops of my letters

  are almost beautiful!

  They look like the tendrils

  of a garden vine as it climbs

  over a tall fence

  to go exploring.

  The Hope Bug

  School vacation!

  Time off.

  No dreaded books.

  No shameful teasing.

  No reading OUT LOUD.

  I have time to make jewelry

  from the foamy white hearts

  of green reeds that I pluck

  from the banks of the river.

  I have time to weave crickets

  from strips of palm leaf.

  The crickets are called

  esperanzas—hopes.

  When I give one to Mamá,

  she tells me the little insect

  will bring her great luck.

  She gives me a hug

  in return.

  Before the Hunt

  Every caimán hunt begins

  with a huge party.

  My father roasts a pig

  spiced and wrapped

  in banana leaves,

  then lowered into a pit

  in the deep red soil,

  where wood and flames

  will transform it

  into un guateque,

  a farmer's feast.

  When the cousins arrive,

  we start dancing and singing

  funny liars' songs.

  Later, while boys race horses

  and girls cook, cousin Carmen

  helps me invent new riddles.

  The old folks play dominoes.

  Young women fan their faces

  while men fight a poetry duel,

  battling in powerful voices

  to see who can claim

  the verse victory,

  as each man strives

  to recite the most

  dramatic

  heart-pounding

  emotional

  poem!

  The Poetry Duel

  To please my mother,

  the poems are Rubén Darío's

  verses about swans

  and flying horses,

  and a strange one about

  mental earthquakes,

  and an angry poem

  for world leaders

  who try to bully

  the future

  with bullets.

  There is a drumbeat

  verse about loving

  your own rhythm

  and the encouraging one

  about God's towers

  of hope

  and a joyful little verse

  about eggs in a warm nest

  in a warm tree.

  There is even a poem

  that helps me feel normal,

  a comforting verse

  about feeling blinded

  by daydreams.

  When Mamá stands up

  and recites a LOUD verse—

  just like a man—

  she chooses the one

  about gold seashells

  that look like hearts.

  That is how I know

  that she must be dreaming

  of the peaceful beach

  where we camp

  only once

  each summer

  even though we live


  so close

  to the rolling blue sea

  that there is nothing

  to stop us

  from living like mermaids.

  We could be discovering

  undersea treasures

  each day,

  gold shells that resemble

  wave-washed

  hearts.

  Fly to the Truth of Dreams

  After my mother

  finishes her seascape,

  one of my uncles recites

  a long poem about the sky,

  where sun spirits

  ride glowing chariots,

  and there is someone

  who knows how to fly

  toward the truth

  of dreams...

  I don't understand

  the whole thrilling verse,

  but I love the way poetry

  turns ordinary words

  into winged things

  that rise up

  and soar!

  Rum and Bullets

  My big brothers drink rum,

  and then, just to frighten me,

  they sing an ugly rhyme

  about sneaky spiders

  and slimy frogs.

  They laugh and laugh

  while they take turns

  admiring a new rifle

  that one of our uncles

  brought for the hunt.

  The rifle is long and shiny.

  José de Jesús brags

  that the bad caimán

  does not stand a chance.

  He holds the ominous gun

  backwards, sideways,

  and upside down.

  He flips it and spins it,

  showing off like a girl

  with a fancy new dress.

  The rum makes him childish.

  The gun makes him dangerous.

  He dances a wild rumba,

  pretending that the rifle

  is his partner.

  The explosion

  is like nothing

  I have ever heard—

  thunder and lightning

  all rolled into one

  stormy burst

  of terror.

  My brother's eyes

  open wide, and then

  they slowly sag shut

  while my heart flies

  rapidly back and forth

  between fear

  and grief.

  Rum and bullets

  are such a deadly

  combination.

  Why didn't anyone see

  that the dragonlike

  caimán

  was our wild farm's

  least dangerous

  beast?

  Waiting

  Patience defies me.

  How can I sit quietly

  while my brother's life

  seeps away?

  I tremble and weep

  as Mamá binds

  the ghastly wound

  in a frantic effort

  to slow the savage

  waterfall

  of bleeding.

  Papá mounts a horse

  and races all the way

  to town.

  Agonizing hours later,

  he finally returns

  with another

  galloping horseman—

  the same hissing doctor

  who once called me

  word-blind.

  This time, the doctor

  ignores me, working swiftly

  to save my brother's life.

  All I can do is wait

  and watch, hoping

  the doctor knows

  more about bullets

  than blindness.

  Discovering My Voice

  The parrot on the roof

  wails and shrieks, copying

  Mamá's desperate prayers

  as she begs for a miracle

  of healing.

  Tear-streaked and silent,

  I feel so useless, so helpless—

  until an imaginary wild book

  opens up, inside my mind.

  Quietly, I begin picturing letters,

  syllables, and invisible wings,

  sending a trail of bird-words

  soaring toward heaven.

  My silent voice feels

  powerful and LOUD.

  Ready to Heal

  José has survived!

  He needs peace and quiet.

  I bring him herbs and soup.

  I bring him silent smiles.

  I receive only frowns

  in return.

  The doctor advises me

  to be patient.

  He tells me that my brother

  will need plenty of time

  to heal.

  The doctor's tired voice

  no longer sounds like a hiss.

  Perhaps my way of hearing

  has somehow

  changed.

  Strange Cures

  The bullet missed José's heart,

  but it crushed a bone.

  His shoulder will always be stiff.

  Farm work will be impossible.

  Papá tells my brother that he

  must find a new way to live.

  After a few days of angry

  arguments, José announces

  that he wants to be a teacher.

  He declares that he must begin

  by teaching me.

  So now I have to read OUT LOUD

  while my wounded brother

  peacefully listens.

  My brother calls it his reading cure.

  I call it torture.

  Reading Out Loud

  I would rather tell riddles

  or sing funny liars' songs,

  like the one about a spider

  who sews clothes for a cricket,

  or the one about silly fleas

  who wear fancy trousers,

  even though they do not

  own any underwear at all.

  Instead, I have to SOUND OUT

  all the difficult syllables

  of tiny pieces of long poems

  un—til

  I am hope—less—ly

  fu—ri—ous—ly

  wea—ry.

  Fear-Chained

  Rumors of danger return,

  just when I am already

  so exhausted, and all I need

  is safety, and all I know

  is the possibility of loss.

  My brother's wound came

  from his own careless

  rum-and-rifle dance,

  but I cannot help wishing

  there were something else

  to blame, like caimáns

  or bandits...

  As I picture all the links

  in life's long chain of dangers,

  I grow so anxious that while

  my poor brother sleeps

  and heals, I begin to scribble

  my own oddly

  comforting verses,

  this growing vine

  made of words

  that almost sing

  but rarely rhyme.

  Even scribbling

  is such a struggle.

  Will my blank book

  ever be full?

  Wondering

  Kidnappers, beasts, bullets...

  Life seems just as perilous

  as during the war years

  when my parents

  were starving

  in a prison camp

  and their first baby

  died of fever.

  I wonder if poor little Haida

  is in the air, floating nearby—

  perhaps she is one of my

  eleven thousand

  guardian angels.

  Can she hear me trying to cure

  my wounded brother

  with poems?

  Just One

  My eyes burn, my head aches,

  and my vision feels so weak

  that I am afraid to use up


  whatever is left of my eyesight.

  When I tell José that so much

  reading out loud exhausts me,

  he advises me to read just one

  small part of a single poem

  over and over, until I love

  the familiar rhythm.

  So I choose the Rubén Darío

  verse about a blank page,

  and I read the same few lines

  until I almost begin to feel

  calm and safe.

  More Practice

  José is beginning to seem

  like a real teacher.

  He encourages me