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.
poy-zah nigh-vee by Caleb Jagoda | Sandalwood & Rose Poetry Reed Diffuser
Caleb Jagoda talks in aphorisms until those closest to him demand he stop—but hey, you know what they say: Buy the ticket, take the ride. Caleb is a poet, journalist, and MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. His work has appeared in Blue Earth Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and Down East Magazine, among other places. His debut chapbook, Hunting, is available through Bottlecap Press. He lives in New Hampshire, and is big on the internet: www.calebjagoda.com.
