I’ve always forged the four syllables
in the wrong formation, placing a break
before the n instead of after, alchemizing
the mush of letters like my mother, also
Portuguese, obscured beneath the blush
of her Massachusetts inflection until a wedge
of strange phrasing strikes you as would
a satellite dish, out of orbit between two planets
of meaning.
I’m always reminded of my vovô, his small frame
launching soccer balls at me full-force, his clipped
English instructing me to be strong, like bull,
to always dive, for show, a shanked ball
leading me to brush where jagged leaves grab
and grasp, apply oily resin, the ball
like a planet bathed in sunlight, glistening in dew,
the two of us, Carolos and I, speaking
through the impact of foot and hand
on leather.
I’ve always seized the chore of visiting the store
in New Bedford the day before Christmas, grocery aisles
alive and buzzing like a honeycomb with language
rich and displaced, children weighing linguiça, chourico,
uncles eyeing caipirinha ingredients, families
spreading like a rash through the building, across
the region, as if an accident, mispronounced words
mutating with each slip of the tongue, my vovô’s
voice ringing in my head: My people
so beautiful.
