Kristen D. Scottunder a lone surviving Elm and newly sown sweet
corn, Pancho rests, speaking broken Española the southern Colorado field, his barrio. Pancho calls my father Ye’s instead of Les. like tortilla or llama. My dad doesn’t seem to mind, even though he complains. Pancho tosses a stray mutt spicy chicharrón thrown from a brown paper bag, his belly shakes when the dog howls for more. “Ye’s la mirada” my dad nods his head pulls his Allis-Chalmers cap over his big blues, wanting to nap, but grins. Pancho’s cousin says he is illegal, he sends money to his wife, Theresa in Old Mexico, and has one son who farms in Fresno. Later, dad, says, “Pancho’s gone back to Chihuahua,” “lazy bastard.” A bit of worry deepens his eyes. My brother’s say, “Pancho’s been deported,” “deportado.” Since Pancho’s capture, we play outside in the evenings My mother throws a potato at my dad, grazing his bald head. “You’re smoking too much; the kids cannot breathe.” My father tells her, “Pancho’s son Pedro left Mexico because the water and air are dirty.” My mom does not hear him; he plants a big one on her and calls her, “hot-lips,” labios calientes. My mom comes up for air says, he will die of cancer if he doesn’t stop smoking. 15 years later he does. My father again, takes his siesta, tosses hot Vienna sausages to the stray he now calls, “Cisco.” There are no homemade chicharron. Cisco, whines. Together they stretch under the Elm with Pancho lost – my father and the stray, both American mutts, close their eyes under the resting afternoon las sombra. June 29, 2018 |
