Every Sunday, my family
celebrates a children’s dance, with aunts,
uncles, cousins, and other festive relatives.
Some of my tías seem a bit crazy,
all wrapped up in ruffles and wearing
shiny red shoes, as if they think they
are still little girls
like their pretty daughters.
These dressed-up aunts claim to be impressed
with my elaborate, rhythmic sonnets
written for funerals, so now I’m invited
to recite completely new rhymes
for female cousins, las primas,
generous girls who are eager to praise
my poetic talent, as long as their names
are included in the titles of verses.
I scribble on fans and in autograph albums,
my hurricane of words always inspiring
a whirl of smiles.