People call me el niño poeta,
a nickname that follows me wherever I go.
My first publication is a poem in a newspaper
on the occasion of the death of a friend’s father.
Suddenly I’m famous
in all the nations of Central America.
So I let my hair grow long
like my indio ancestors,
and I tie it back in a ponytail,
think of myself as a rebel,
and eventually I make a point
of neglecting my studies,
especially mathematics.
I fight with boys,
flirt with girls,
and absolutely refuse
to listen to grown-ups.
How can Tía Bernarda continue to tell me
that she expects me to be an apprentice
to a tailor?
Why should I stitch
rich men’s ugly suits
when I can weave
beautiful words
into a wealth
of useful verses?