Land of the Cranes

A SOFT MEMORY
I don’t remember the mountain where I was born or the place where I first crawled.
I remember Mami’s worried mouth a whisper that she, Papi, and I would follow home
a flock of cranes going
El Norte, Los Angeles.
There, we could be birds too-brown grullas where bad men could not harm us like they did my Tío Pedro and Abuelita would not worry.
Seven years later
I think I remember the soft wrinkles on Abuelita Lola’s face.

WHAT I KNOW:
I know my school’s shiny floors a broken water fountain and boxed chocolate milk I buy for fifty cents.
I know Ms. Martinez and her happy handshakes at her door before each fourth-grade morning.
I know how to write and draw the picture poems Ms. Martinez taught us to paint our feelings.
I know to never forget to scribble my name and date on the bottom.
I know recess on the blacktop and the length of my golden brown crane wings in the desert sun.
I know my BFF, Amparo climbs los columpios like wind.
I know aftercare until six p.m. when Papi comes to get me between
his two jobs
and carries me home
on his strong shoulders
so high I find
flight.