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.