by Aida Salazar
Each house pushes out
its own smell
of homemade
sopa or carnes or salsas
or the scent of
Pine-Sol mop water
emptied on a driveway.
But my favorite is the smell
of geraniums when
I snap a leaf and rub
it into my hands
make one into a cup
up to Mami’s nose
to make her smile.
At the clinic
crane chisme
fills the waiting room
like a band of pots and pans
until we roll into the clean quiet
of the checkup room.
You and the baby are both doing great!
Twenty weeks and you’re right on schedule,
Nurse Sandra says as she show us
the ultrasound of our egg.
It’s kicking its little legs, sucking its
little thumb, and turning
away from us like I do
when I’m in bed
and I don’t want
to wake up.
Mami pays one hundred dollars for the visit
because we don’t have that insurance
we’d have if we weren’t cranes.
Estoy feliz, she says, the baby is okay.
Mami and I almost bounce back out
into the cold sun of the morning
that pours itself
onto my East LA
like liquid gold
the color of corn.
St. Rose of Lima is super crowded.
It’s La Virgen de Guadalupe’s day.
But we wiggle our way
up to the big statue of
La Virgen, who has
more flowers than
a garden.
I give her angel
a secret crane poem.
My wish for dulzura for Papi.
I fold it into
a tight origami triangle
and cram it between the angel’s
hairy head and the crescent.
It’s almost a secret because
you can see a big chunk of my
name and date on the triangle fold.
ita-December 12
I need to see mis amores,
Papi says when he calls.
The achy feeling
of wanting to be with him
splits my heart just a little more open.
Mami’s eyes flood with tears
when she says,
And we need to see you, cariño.
A crane told me
there is a way for us to meet
at a place called Friendship Park
at the Tijuana / San Diego border.
Though, we would be divided
by a fence.
Really, Papi?
Maybe we can at least hold your hand?
Maybe you can touch Mami’s nest!
Maybe we can hug you!
I don’t know for sure
but wouldn’t that be sweet, Plumita?
I wish we could do that.
Wait, could we?
Well, I could take a Friday-night bus
to Tijuana and be there by Saturday
when the park is supposed to open.
Mami jumps in up.
I could ask your brother, Juan, to drive us there?
Is Tijuana far, Papi?
Not as far for you as it is for me.
Please, Papi!
Please, Mami!
Could we try?
We could! Why not, mi’ja?
Papi, do you think it would be safe?
I ask, suddenly remembering
how ICE took him.
Not at Friendship Park, they say
that place is made for meeting!
My wings begin to wiggle when he says,
Let’s talk to Tío Juan
and see what he says.
Tío Juan plays Norteñas
nonstop in the car
as we drive to meet
Papi in San Diego.
Tío Juan’s, Tía Raquel’s,
Tina’s, and Mami’s heads
bounce to accordions and horns.
My jittery mind does jumping jacks.
Mami brought Papi homemade gorditas
filled with picadillo and her too-spicy-for-me salsa.
I brought him a new crane poem
and his pillowcase
so he can put it in his shirt
while we visit
and give his feathered scent
back to me.
The freeway is crowded with cars
and too many trucks traveling
big and wide and blocking the views
of all I’ve never seen
outside of East LA …
Cities, green grassy hills, open skies
with hawks flying
and swooping down
landing on the telephone wires
that look like a necklace
lining the road.
Tina’s got the GPS
fixed on Friendship Park
though the signal goes
in and out.
Are we close yet?
I ask Tío Juan and Tina every few minutes
and he sighs real deep
but then he gives me a job.
Tell us a story, Betita.
From the back seat where I sit
squished between
Tina and Mami
I tell him about how Amparo
and I play Chichimeca warriors
because of the stories Papi once told us.
Papi said the bravest fighters
pushed the Spanish away for centuries.
They would not be conquered.
Just then Mami gets a call from Papi, she says,
He arrived! He said Friendship Park is near a beach!
I can see him now
behind the fence
his bright face
with his broken wings
standing where
the earth meets the ocean
waiting to hold our hands.
My GPS is jammed, Tina says
looking down at her phone
while more stories pour out of me,
There are places with huge pyramids
across the Americas
where our people
followed the paths of stars.
A hundred times bigger than these trucks.
I point to the big rigs we are sandwiched between.
Pa, I think we’ve gone too far, Tina shouts over me.
I’ll get off on the next exit. He moves right,
but a truck’s in the way and he can’t
so he tries to go around it.
Just as we pass, I read aloud a sign that says,
“Last US Exit.”
Tío Juan’s neck twists like an owl’s
to see the road behind him.
¡Hijole! We missed the exit!
¿Qué? We did what? Can we make a U-turn?
We all fling questions at him like rubber band shots.
Ay dios, I’m afraid we have no choice but to go through.
He shakes his head and grips the steering wheel
like we are about to head
off a cliff.
But we don’t.
The car slows with traffic
and we cross what looks
like a gigantic gas station
with an oversized sign that reads,
M E X I C O.
Tío Juan’s words run a marathon.
I’ve got to get back i
n line. I’ve got to tell
them it was a mistake. It will be okay. We’ll
be okay. We’ve got our papers. You’ve got
Fernanda’s, right?
Mami nods quickly and holds the bump of her belly.
Are we okay, Mami? What about Papi? I ask.
She reaches for me and says,
Everything will be alright, Betita.
Be patient. La Virgencita is with us.
She takes my hand and wraps
a string of rosary beads around it.
We have to have faith
that everything will be alright.
We join the lines of slow-moving cars.
It’s like rush hour in LA! I blurt.
Is that the US border ahead now, Mami?
Ya, Betita! Tía Raquel shouts. You’re making me nervous.
Tina pokes me with an elbow.
Mami hushes me by tapping her finger on my lips.
I’m not sure what I said wrong
but I turn off the faucet of my mouth.
As we approach a guard station
the quiet grows in our car.
A man in uniform with the words
“CBP Border Patrol” on his vest
looks in and demands, Passports, please.
I’m so relieved it isn’t ICE.
Mami hands him the paperwork
Fernanda gave us, and Tío Juan
gives him his and Tina’s passports
but he has nothing for Tía Raquel.
The agent looks them over and motions for us
to go park off to the side for inspection.
We get out and Tío Juan’s mouth is running again
talking up two more agents who’ve come
to look through the car and our papers.
I can’t make out all they say but I know
Mami’s hand
trembles hard
in mine.
Tío Juan’s face grows
red as he argues
helicopter arms
moving in every direction.
Suddenly one of the agents
takes Tía Raquel by the arm
and walks her over to an SUV.
Tía Raquel begins to cry
turns back
to scream at Tío Juan and Tina,
Please don’t let them take me. Please!
Before I know it, an agent has Mami
by the arm too, but Mami shakes free.
¡Espera! Wait, no, no no!
We need asylum, that’s what the papers say!
He grabs her arm again and says coldly,
This isn’t enough, you’re going in.
I run to hold Mami around the waist
and shout loud at him,
I am a brave
Chichimeca warrior!
You will not take my mami too!
Mami clutches me close.
But my daughter? she begs.
She’s going in with you, he cuts.
Tina’s and Tío Juan’s shock spills
off their faces, their eyes bounce
wild across us.
Tina lifts a quick hand
with her phone to record it.
I swing an angry arm
like a sword
at him.
I repeat louder,
I am a brave
Chichimeca warrior!
But the angry-faced agent
slaps my hand away.
I spread my wings to fly
but before I take flight
they drag us
into the SUV
with Tía Raquel
clipping our wings
when the door
slams
shut.
They’ve tied Mami’s and Tia Raquel’s
wings behind their backs
with thin plastic strips.
They force-buckle me
to the seat.
I push
them away, screaming.
I hear Mami’s worried voice,
Do what they tell you, Betita!
¡Por favor, amor, por favor!
Mami’s and Tia’s tears
collide
with mine as we watch
Tío Juan and Tina drive away
and others slowly fill the SUV.
Then we finally drive too.
They don’t talk to us.
They don’t tell us
where we are going.
They don’t respond
when Mami pleads
like Fernanda told her
for “political asylum”
because there is
danger waiting for us
in the mountain.
They speak only to tell us,
You have been detained for
breaking United States immigration laws.
You will be processed and
taken to a detention facility.
Detention, like for being
bad at school?
Processed?
Mami prays Tío Juan will
reach Fernanda and that she will
know where to find us
that someone’s called Papi
or Amparo’s family
to tell them
they’ve taken us.
Virgencita, protect us, por favor, Mami says.
Though we are
strapped down
I touch Mami’s crying face
with one hand.
With the other
I hold our egg
resting in her nest.
I am afraid
it might crack.
a desert to the
“detention facility,”
not cranes, criminals.
When we arrive, a big frozen
concrete monster
swallows us up
through its heavy mouth.
Doors made of painted iron.
We walk slowly into rooms
one after the other, as cold as stones.
I’ve heard about this place,
la hielera, an icebox we’ve seen on the news
that holds cranes in a chill, trying to find home.
We line up with other mothers
and children cranes here too.
Being “processed” like us.
Tía Raquel is taken
to another line with no children.
Could it be because Tina is not with her?
I hold on to Mami’s belt loop
as we walk into a room
where they finally release the plastic ties
around her almost-bleeding wrists.
Instead of reaching to rub them
she reaches to fold me
into her warm arms.
She doesn’t let go.
Then, her ojos, wet from crying
look to me as if to say,
Be brave, mamita, be brave.
They make her empty her pockets
though all of her things
are in her purse
which they already have.
She holds her breath when
they take the medalla
of La Virgen from around her neck.
She helps me empty my pockets
and what I have, I don’t want
to give to them either.
Fifty cents for chocolate milk
a shiny concrete rock that glimmers in the sun
a dried dead bee I collected in the yarda
and a folded crane poem
I made just for Papi.
It shows flying Chichimeca warriors
gliding above my school
and reads:
Warriors swarm
like bees above us.
> They keep us safe
while you are away, Papi.
Betita-February 4
I don’t show them Papi’s pillow square
stolen away and warming my chest
for no one but me and maybe Mami
to ever smell.
We walk into the ice monster’s maze
of chain-link skirts
cages filled with cranes
more shades of tan and brown
than I’ve ever seen.
Families captured
sad faced
worried faced
crying faced
distant faced
some lying down
some standing, arms crossed
others sitting
no longer wearing wings
but silver capes
that crinkle crackle
each time they move
or pull the capes closer to their bodies.
Coughs
babies crying
people speaking
quietly
all a stir in my ears.
The capes
shuffling and sounding
so loud inside and outside
their murmurs.
Is this where we are headed
when Mami and me are handed
a folded cape each?
Some of them see us and I can tell
they feel sorry for us. Some stare
away from us, maybe wondering
when they will be free.
Others close their eyes
and clench their fists
like I sometimes do
when wishing for a nightmare
to be over.
we’re locked into a
chain-link cage made for cranes
with our silver capes.
My panza grumbles
like trash can opossums
growling in the dark.
I’ve been too scared to notice
until now.