Esteban Rodriguez
Rome
Before one project’s done, your father
starts the next—front porch, driveway,
a new roof for an unfinished shed.
And within the house, there are unpainted
cabinets, missing tiles and laminate,
a kitchen sink that continues to leak.
Yes, there is more than enough work for him
to complete, and yet, your father can’t see
a project through, can’t bring himself
to work on one and only one thing for
an afternoon, perhaps because he likes
the way your mother gets after him,
or the way she shakes her head,
or how she’ll go for weeks without
speaking, hoping he’ll find motivation
in her silence. Or perhaps it’s because you
never lend a hand, and to spite you,
he doesn’t nail that board, doesn’t tighten
that screw, doesn’t even out the edges
of a cut plank of wood, because he wants you
to feel some sense of guilt, because he wants
you to know that his version of Rome
will take more than a day to build.
Broma
Of course, you heard the joke before,
how Mexicans like barbecuing in the park,
how they hold birthdays and weekend
get togethers there, claim a table and pit
and watch it fill with uncles, cousins, aunts,
with family that hasn’t been spoken to
in months. And when your roommate asks
if this is true, if your childhood consisted
of such scenes, you forget for a moment
the privilege of ignorance, think of a table
full of birthday cake, plates, drinks, think
of how you were once escorted beneath a tree,
and how after being tossed a broken
broomstick, you were given permission
to hit that rainbow-colored piñata, again
and again, and to never once think that
when the pony broke open, spilled its guts
of chocolate bars, lollipops, and unlabeled
candy, the reward on the ground
wouldn’t be yours to take.
Here
As if contemplating the vastness
of the ocean, you stare at the blackboard,
replay the way you said “Here,” quick
but loud enough for the whole class
to hear. But maybe your tone was too strong,
sounded too much like a boy’s imitation
of a man, like your voice had yet to fully
form, and because it had not, you had to make
the class believe you were older than you were,
or that really you didn’t care, were beyond
the routine of attendance, beyond language
itself, beyond the antics from the year before,
when sometimes you’d say Presente, estoy
presente señor, aware that because Spanish
wasn’t everyone’s native tongue, at least
one of your peers would find—as you
regretted you found so many times before—
how good it felt to laugh at someone else.
Esteban Rodríguez is the author of the poetry collections Dusk & Dust, Crash Course, In Bloom, (Dis)placement, and The Valley. He is the Interviews Editor for the EcoTheo Review, an Assistant Poetry Editor for AGNI, and a regular reviews contributor for [PANK] and Heavy Feather Review. He lives in Austin, Texas.
@estebanjrod11
Malasaña | Hudson, NY| Cargo Collective | Portland, ME | 2021