Gracias, Sabás
Gracias, Sabás
Por la tarde vine del jardín
a la cocina a decirle a Sabás que teníía hambre
Mi abue sentada en la mesa grande
desconsando su corazón y practicando su español con
Sabás quien—sin quemar sus puntos dedales—
voltió una tortilla de harina mientras se tosto
y levantando pecas negras de el sarten de hiero.
Yo estudie la tortilla mientras la mantequilla se redetio,
calmando polvo de harina
y esperando los frijoles o la carne; sin embargo, Sabás me dió
solo este "calientito," para no hechar a pender mi cena.
No me acuerdo mucho de las ensaladas, carne rostisada o las jelatinas;
pero esas tortillas detuvieron mi hambre por la tarde.
Ahora, veo las tortillas de harina como mapas topográficas,
cerros negros y cafés por el desierto blanco,
donde masa harina se levanta dentro las palmas que las hizo.
Yo leo esas mapas redondas mientras las pongo a mis labios,
esperando trazar a la moda a Sabás,
pero la tortilla no más me guía a su orilla,
aunque ambos niños Californios seguirian
este mapa a las mujeres que nos crillaron,
seguirian por mano por boca hasta la memoria.
-----translation-----
Gracias, Sabás
Afternoons, I'd come in from the garden to
the kitchen and tell Sabás I was hungry.
I sat with my Grammy at the long table
where she rested her heart and practiced Spanish with Sabás.
Sabás could turn a flour tortilla in an iron skillet
without burning her fingertips while it
singed brown and picked up black freckles.
As I studied the butter melting over the tortilla's surface,
Settling the flour's dust
I wished for beans or meat. Sabás gave only this calientito,
nothing more to spoil my dinner. She kept our home.
I don't recall much about the salads, roasts or puddings
only those tortillas that held my afternoon hunger.
Today, I look at flour tortillas as topographical maps,
brown and black hills in the white desert,
where masa harina rose into the palms that made them.
I read tortillas as circular maps that I put to my lips,
hoping to trace the way to Sabás,
but the tortilla only leads the way to its edge,
though many California children would follow
this map to the women who helped raise us,
we follow from hand to mouth to memory.
Translation by Andres Two Hawks Monreal
Poem by Brandon Cesmat
Brandon Cesmat
contents of issue 3
Table Leavings
Rain Prud'homme_Cranford Gomez
Brandon Cesmat Biography
Brandon Cesmat lives in Valley Center, CA near the Rincon and San Pasqual reservations. His books include Light in All Directions, Driven into the Shade and When Pigs Fall in Love. He teaches at CSU San Marcos but looks forward to walking his sons' dogs along Paradise Creek, which feeds into the San Luis Rey River.
