The Wild Book Read online

  to practice and practice

  more and more,

  as if my entire future

  depends on nothing

  but words.

  Maybe

  it does.

  More and More Poetry

  Does one small

  accomplishment

  always lead to another?

  I keep choosing tiny parts

  of Rubén Darío's long poems.

  There is one about singing leaves,

  a magic dragonfly, and birds

  of the soul...

  and another about

  a horse that runs

  like lightning, moving

  as swiftly as an idea...

  It only takes a few swift lines

  to make the rhythmic music

  of my imagination

  gallop!

  The Secret Language of Children

  When she thinks I need a rest,

  Mamá sends me to the garden

  to gather manzanilla flowers

  for a soothing tea to help

  baby Rubén fall asleep.

  I return to the porch and find

  José playing a foolish game

  with little Julio and Etelvina,

  a game called jerigonzas—

  nonsense—also known

  as the secret language

  of Cuban children.

  I have never mastered the art

  of making sense from nonsense.

  José tries to coach me.

  Take any word.

  Add chi after each syllable.

  If grownups can still

  understand, try chiri

  instead of chi.

  Etelvina has no trouble

  turning Fefa into Fechifachi,

  and Julio is clever enough

  to lengthen Fefa

  into Fechirifachiri.

  All I manage to do is end up

  feeling like a long riddle

  without any answer.

  Never Give Up

  I practice and practice,

  until I finally do

  manage to hear

  the tricky syllables

  of hi—lar—i—ous

  ri—dic—u—lous

  make-believe

  nonsense words.

  If only the rest

  of my strange life

  made as much sense

  as nonsense.

  Never give up,

  my brother advises.

  Never.

  Nevchierchi.

  Nevchirierchiri.

  Hideous

  Just when I've started feeling

  safe and smart, the farm manager

  bothers me with ugly questions.

  Do I like the verse he wrote

  in my album?

  Has anyone else given me

  a rhyme?

  Have young boys ever called me

  a rose?

  Would I like another poem,

  and maybe a kiss...

  I am so alarmed, and so ashamed

  that I tell no one, not even José,

  not even in our language

  of secrets.

  Danger Grows

  My father has finally killed

  the dangerous caimán

  that caused so much trouble.

  Our river would be safe now

  if there weren't so many

  new reports of farm children

  kidnapped by the bandits

  Alvarez and Tolís.

  So Papá gives Fausto a pistol

  and tells him to guard us,

  protect us, keep us all safe...

  Guns in the hand

  of a tricky man?

  Certain ordinary words

  crowded so close together

  make no sense at all.

  I am not brave enough

  to protest.

  Sleepless

  No matter how long

  and tangled the danger chain

  grows, I still have to cook

  a hearty lunch of meat,

  rice, beans, yams, coffee,

  wild fruit, and pudding.

  Afterward, during the quiet

  siesta hour, when we are all

  supposed to sleep, I sit up

  and sway in a rocking chair,

  wondering, worrying...

  Did anyone hear Fausto's

  hideous questions?

  Will I be blamed

  for his ugly words?

  A Laughter Gift

  I hardly ever smile anymore,

  but when three of my oldest,

  most shriveled great-aunts

  come to visit, they bring

  a gift of humor.

  Seated in rocking chairs

  on the porch, they grin

  and wave at three gallant

  young horsemen

  who prance by, hoping

  to flirt with three

  of my prettiest big sisters.

  At the sight of old women

  beckoning, the boys gallop away

  so swiftly that they don't have

  a chance to hear me

  join my mischievous

  old aunts'

  chuckles

  and giggles

  and guffaws

  of amusement.

  Surrounded by laughter,

  I almost feel safe.

  Daily Music

  During perilous times

  we rarely feast,

  but my brothers

  still perform rope tricks

  that look

  like a ballet

  of the leaping horse

  and looping rope,

  and my sisters

  stir a coconut pudding

  that sounds like a rumba

  of the kettle

  and the spoon.

  I compete with José

  to see who can sing

  the best liars' song.

  He invents one about cows

  that give sweet, delicious

  whipped cream

  instead of plain milk.

  I sing about an earthworm

  that wears a fancy hat,

  even though he does not

  have a head.

  After a few funny songs,

  any starlit evening

  can turn into a lively

  family dance.

  Dance-Smart

  Everyone says I am

  a fine dancer!

  Suddenly, I feel drumbeat,

  guitar-ripple, maraca-rattle

  dance-smart.

  José is a naturally

  smart teacher,

  and Darío has a way

  with plants in the garden,

  and baby Rubén

  or little Etelvina

  might grow up to be smart

  in the handy way of artists,

  carving statues

  or painting murals.

  I am dance-smart

  when my feet

  and hands

  forget to worry

  about the rhythms

  that I know

  how to tap

  and clap

  OUT LOUD.

  Still Struggling

  As soon as I touch

  my wild book

  with dancing fingers,

  I have to start all over,

  re—mem—ber—ing

  to

  move

  oh

  so

  slowly,

  writing

  a graceful,

  patient

  waltz,

  not

  a rapidly

  pounding

  conga.

  Stroytelling

  No one in my family

  ever throws anything away,

  not even an old story

  that can be told and retold

  late at night, to make the deep

  darkness feel

  a little less lonely.<
br />
  In the garden, there is a vine

  with fragrant white flowers.

  Long ago, it was an Indian girl

  who was forced to flee

  from Spanish soldiers.

  She hid alone in the forest

  and learned the language

  of animals—

  as soldiers approached,

  she turned into a flower,

  but all the animals

  still know her.

  When our little farm dog

  sniffs the fragrant vine,

  I imagine he must be talking

  to the frightened girl.

  Back in the time

  when stories were born,

  the entire island of Cuba

  was covered with an immense

  ancient forest.

  Now, the towering trees

  are mostly gone, replaced

  by rolling hills

  and open pastures.

  If dangerous men

  ever chase me,

  where will I hide?

  One Strand at a Time

  When an uncle brings piles

  of the white cotton strings

  and green silk threads

  that are used for tying

  cement sacks, my mother

  crochets a lovely white purse.

  She gives me the green silk

  to make a shimmering

  winglike shawl.

  My hands fly one loop

  at a time, like dancing doves

  in an emerald sky, scribbling

  mysterious bird-words.

  I feel like a girl in a story,

  human and magical

  at the same time.

  The Beach in August

  The cows are fat, and Papá

  is ready for a vacation.

  He trusts Fausto

  to take care of the farm.

  We pack our white dresses

  and wide straw hats.

  Mamá is so excited that she sings,

  Get this, get that, hurry up...

  Everything we own

  seems to be going with us

  to our sandy camping place

  at the seashore.

  The beach is not far away,

  but thejourney takes us

  through a murky marsh,

  past manatees

  that look like smiling

  chubby mermaids.

  I wonder if the gentle manatees

  know that caimáns, crocodiles,

  and sharks all lurk beneath the surface,

  watching and waiting...

  The Beach at Noon

  Too much sun, too much sand.

  Stingrays, jellyfish, spiny

  purple urchins that pierce

  my careless feet...

  We eat so much fish

  that I expect to sprout

  shiny fins and a glistening

  green tail.

  I am tired of drinking

  nothing but coconut milk,

  tired of cracking crab claws,

  tired of brothers throwing sand

  and sisters teasing.

  Papá says it doesn't matter,

  as long as the whole family

  is together.

  The Beach at Night

  Everything glows.

  The sky is made of stars

  and the waves are

  phosphorescent.

  Phos—pho—res—cent.

  I sound out syllables,

  even though here

  at the peaceful beach

  I don't have to read,

  scribble, or do anything

  but slow down and listen

  to the natural poem-songs

  whistled and whooshed

  by water, birds, wind,

  and the coiled tunnels

  hidden in trumpet-shaped

  seashells.

  Storm

  Disappointing news—

  we have to leave

  the windy beach now,

  right now...

  A whirling hurricane

  looms

  offshore.

  I am ready to flee,

  but at first, Mamá refuses.

  All she wants to do

  is swim and sigh,

  burying her fingers

  in hot, salty sand.

  I think she must be

  part mermaid

  or part poet.

  Home

  Our green farm looks

  so welcoming and friendly

  that I am even happy to see

  the messy red mud,

  but as we get closer,

  something begins to feel

  dangerous.

  Cows are tied to trees,

  as if ready for a journey

  of their own.

  Thieves!

  My brothers shout

  and my father curses.

  It is clear that the cattle

  are tied up so that they

  can be stolen.

  Home is no longer

  a place to feel safe.

  Awake All Night

  The rustlers gallop away

  before my brothers

  can catch them.

  They did not get our cows,

  but they took my ability

  to sleep.

  I lie awake, listening

  to the beastly shrieks

  and roars

  of hurricane wind.

  How can nighttime

  be filled with so many

  terrifying daydreams?

  Reading Wildly

  I get up and wander

  with a candle in my hand,

  the light a bright flicker

  of comfort.

  On the kitchen table

  I find a piece of paper

  with squiggly letters.

  I struggle to con—cen—trate,

  peering and squinting,

  telling myself that I am not

  word-blind.

  I can read, eagerly,

  sss—low—lll—yyy,

  carefully, even though

  I feel like a fat manatee

  swimming away

  from sleek sharks.

  Ghostly

  The paper is ugly,

  a hideous, horrible

  ransom note.

  Oh.

  ¡Ay!

  Why?

  No!

  It is my worst fear,

  signed by the two

  infamous kidnappers,

  Alvarez and Tolís.

  I am furious, confused.

  The eerie note haunts me.

  The bold, sloppy writing

  looks ghostly as it shrieks:

  PAY

  OR LOSE

  YOUR CHILDREN.

  Doomed

  I stare at the threat,

  feeling certain that I've seen

  this jagged, knife-blade shred

  of ugly handwriting before

  somewhere else, long ago

  in a nightmare...

  Papá is behind me now,

  grumbling and muttering

  something about having

  so many children that he

  could never hope to pay

  a ransom for all...

  What will become

  of us?

  I feel as lost as the girl

  who turned into a flower,

  only I am just one

  detached

  windblown

  petal,

  weightless

  and rootless.

  Even the presence

  of my sturdy father

  is not enough

  to help me feel

  like a natural plant

  with a place

  to belong.

  Thorns

  José saddles his horse

  to ride into town for help.

  His shoulder aches, but he

  refuses to stand around<
br />
  feeling helpless.

  I have no choice.

  I am just a useless child,

  who cannot even

  make sense

  of a ransom note's

  ugliness.

  I stare at the note,

  but I feel just like I did

  months ago, when words

  still jumped and slithered

  like restless green frogs

  or slippery striped snakes.

  Then I see it,

  the nightmarish

  connection—

  this tilted, angry,

  hideous handwriting

  must be Fausto's.

  In my album, the ugly poem

  spoke of a rose in a garden.

  Now I see it so clearly.

  Here are the thorns.