The city is musical
with church bells
and chirping birds,
heels tapping
on cobblestones,
and lush green gardens
that grow so fast that every morning
brings new blossoms, each with its own
enchanted fragrance.
El Bocón is not the only one who fills
the humid air
with ribbons of words
that seem to draw pictures. . . .
Serapia is the cook who tells tales she learned
from her africano ancestors, and Goyo the gardener
speaks of our shared native heritage,
my brown skin and black hair
just as indio as his.
Was Mamá a mestiza of half-Matagalpan descent,
or did she belong to the Pipil Nahua,
Maya, Chontal, Niquirano, Chorotega,
Miskito, or some other proud forest nation?
When I sit in church, the stories I hear
are even more improbable than El Bocón’s
fanciful tales of foreign lands.
The priest speaks of a man
swallowed by a fish,
a boy with a slingshot
who battles a giant,
burning bushes,
and a talking donkey—but no one
ever mentions children left behind
in cow pastures, so maybe reality
is the strangest,
most mystery-filled
terrible
true story
of all.