A POEM A DAY

I'm just happy to be here.
April 30, 2025

20/30 – Cascarones and Pinatas

I crack the cascarones with my hands to show you
how to hold all the colors before we turn to mama
and cover her in confetti

I grab another one and hide it in the soil of one of
grandma’s plants, and you find it and give it to me.
I open the cascarones in front of you so you again
so you can see how a ritual begins

Cascarones in your long hair
Confetti falls with every step you take
All day you’ve run around in your bare feet
The oak tree in front of grandma’s house
looks like its hugging you
so we take a picture between the branches
together as a family
standing on the soil
with confetti falling
over the roots of who we are

Your cousins let you hit the piñata first
before all the other big kids
You take the stick and tap the piñata
gentle as the confetti caught in your hair
We all shout and cheer, and you watch in awe
as candy falls to the ground
and this is how a ritual begins
My Mexican boy learning the joy of being here on this Earth.

When we go to take our family photos,
your mama and I watch you smile so hard,
we can see all your teeth.


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April 30, 2025

19/30: GUARDIAN ANGELS

You see an empty field and run through it
Your steps are sure even if the ground is uneven
The moment you fall is the same moment you rise
like a redwood tree in Muir Woods days before your 1st birthday
We must have walked mile after mile together
under the cool shade and scattered light
Redwoods watched you like guardian angels
Look at you now, son. Hungry for what’s around the corner,
curious and determined to move forward with purpose.
On spring days like this, I used to lay my body down on the soft grass
and release whatever was keeping me from being free
And you are free as a boy before dusk
Watching you be allows me to be
The UT Tower watches over you from the background
like another guardian angel
I feel you tower over your world,
and then you hold my hand until you decide to run again.

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April 30, 2025

18/30: Five pounds of catfish on Good Friday

I buy five pounds of catfish for Good Friday at grandma’s house.
Five minutes away from the promise land, my mom
called me and placed an order for more catfish. I stop at H-E-B
on a sunny Friday afternoon. I finesse the lines, find the filets
and explain to the kind worker that my grandma has run out of catfish on Good Friday.

At first I order three pounds, and
as the filets fill the bag like a riverbed, I think,
better make it five pounds. Five pounds ought to do it.
Five minutes later, I’m outside the store with gold.
My mother has five sons and I’m the middle one.

All five of my senses step into the kitchen.
My grandma shows me how she prepares
the fish before the fry.
Hushpuppies and French fries line the counter,
protected by paper towels and plates.

My grandma carries a cast iron pan out of the pantry
like a hammer. We lower catfish covered in cornmeal
into the oil, and the seconds sizzle by. Five years ago,
I was not frying catfish in my grandmother’s kitchen
on Good Friday. I’ve stood in this kitchen since I was a boy.

And when I look at the clock,
Mateo and Mama are five minutes away.
I think about asking Mateo for a high five when he arrives,
and watching his five fingers rise to meet mine,
my hands still covered in cornmeal.

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