Young Expat

A poem

An only child, my Michigan neighborhood was

The world, so the train’s whistle as we left

Pierced me.

The ever changing scenery, familiar oak and maple trees to

Trees with fan-like leaves the size of my head

Was a thrill to watch, an adventure

My mother said…

From train to truck, the sun was startling on my face, burning

My eyes, while dewy on the train, grew dry and itchy.

Box-like houses of clay with

Glassless windows, musical voices from within that I couldn’t understand

Like staring faces.

My mother said we were at our new home, I preferred

The old one. Chickens ran, brown and white clucking

In the dusty road, weaving between houses, their claws at the ready

For petting hands. School was a stranger, for the first time. One room full of

Children of all ages. One teacher, writing

Words that I could not read, like palabras.

For a time, sleep eluded me. And then, I realized

How quiet the nights were. Now and then, a coyote yipped

Alone…yet excited.

The mountains in the distance became my friends, old green dwarves from a fairy tale

Gnarled and stooped. They amused me

When it rained,

the warm water making rivers along my skin.

The chollas, with their stinging barbs that dig became

Nopales, green beans that were tart and comforting.

I joined the children laughing as they helped their mothers with chores, and I was

Tickled by the wiggling of maiz through my fingers, the dough

Gritty and warm.

At a friend’s birthday party, we dared

To eat hot chiles and let the explosions on our

Tongues go unextinguished, laughing at each other’s faces.

I watched my neighbors and friends, all of us dressed as

Tropical birds in our colorful finery, and enjoyed the smell of

Spices mixing with sweetly cloying cigar smoke from the cantina.

We all danced as we sang feliz cumpleanos,

My tongue dancing along the words.

As the night began to yawn, my mother and I

Returned home, climbing our dusty concrete stairs

To the warmth of our camas in Mexico.