Читать книгу Breathing Space - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 5

I remember sharpened pencils

out the night before the first day

of school on a notebook, holding

on to the idea of scribbling new

thoughts about why old women on

the block never learned to speak

a lick of English, finding novel ways

to see with clarity our end of the

city that was never held up to a

hint of light, and seeing words

from some tome lunge at me to

reveal why the kids with Spanish

sounding names found their way

into dark boxes marked for the grave

dressed up lastly in new suits with

black laced shoes shining for eternal

rest. with pencil and notebook in

hand, I would arrive early at school

take my seat like an envoy from a foreign

land eager for new lessons, and within

seconds it was clear the teachers expected

someone else in the room, after repeating

with patronizing smiles, “You are not to

speak Spanish at school!”