When you were young,
before my siblings and I were born,
before you kissed our father—
elevating him from bachelor to prince—
you made shadows of figure 8 patterns
with your shoulders and head
on the Nicaraguan dirt.
A pendulum swing of brown cascading pigtails
and a homemade skirt
that made all the rich girls’ gold jewelry
turn green from ripe envy.
Though you come from unpretentious origins–
feet rooted in volcanic ash and Diriamba soil–
plumerias grow from the tips of your toes.
Toes that never cease to spin and toil.
Your source of water
was Rubén Darío’s poems.
Your source now are the poetic faces
that call you “Mamá” and “Amor.”
Not the expensive waters
no one can pronounce or afford.
I doubt that sitting on a staircase,
listening to your older sister
reciting poetry from memory–
many moons ago–
you could’ve seen yourself
as more than a vine
with a few flowers and petals
to be plucked to perfume
at just the right time.
Now you’re re a testimony to your family.
A mother of a tree.
Providing mangoes and shade
for playing revealing games.
Duck. Duck. Duck…
You chose the “Goose!”
And the goose chased you.
Three ducklings soon followed.
That’s why it had to be you.
Your poems have never been for
grade or book report.
Poetry is your love of John 10:10:
Jesus came to give abundant life.
Prophecy fulfilled
by nails of strife.
Poetry is your love of beauty.
Beauty found in unlikely places:
In the cracks on old people’s faces.
In the hands of the poor.
In a widow’s anticipation
that’s waiting for a knock at the door.
These dark skin figurines
are tiny treasures unseen
by those of political power
and wealthy means.
That’s why it had to be you.
Your basket of kindness
caught the eye of a Vinedresser.
A generous Landowner and Lord.
Your maternal beauty has allowed me to see
that little girl from a forgotten small town
with pigtails and plumerias–
singing songs about a prince,
sitting crisscross applesauce
in the soft silt–
happy to have a one-eyed doll to love.
Before there were cartels.
Before there were crying doves.
Before there were wars.
Before there were 50 brands
of cereal at the grocery store.
It was just you.
A common girl with an unusual gift
for making mud pies.
And from mud pies,
you make nacatamales come alive.
That’s your legacy.
Your unforgettable story.
Your final clue …
as to why …
it had to be you.