Calle Chopo

[dedalus_1947]

Ancient black girders
Fused with sheets
Of darkening glass,
Rise as twin steeples
In the Mexican sky
On Chopo Street.

Sidewalk gondolas
Of purple, red and gold,
Glide to the gothic harbor,
Seeking the perfect mooring
To display their confectionary treats.
Heaped with piles
Of Chicharronnes, candy spirals,
And bags of corn and nuts.
The festooned carts
Peddled their fare
Of morning snacks,
And switched in the afternoon,
To steaming tamales
And carnitas de carbon.

A high pitched whistle
Pierces the air,
And ears of children
And infants hear
The escaping cry
Through synthetic lips.
A sweet-toned pilot,
With tethered clouds
Of jostling helium,
Sings out:
Glo-bos! Glo-bos!
Se venden Glo-bos!

Across and up the street
From this cathedral to science,
Is a crumbling, stucco wall,
Crowned with rusty, iron spikes,
That opens to an endless sea
Of stepped doorways
To countless houses,
Row by row,
With porticoes above.
A grey ocean courtyard
Of concrete, brick, and stone.

The second doorway on the right
Was the home of Mima,
Mima-madi, Mi abuelita.
A small, bespectacled lady
With graying hair in a bun,
And a gentle,
Warming
Smile.
Happy to see my mother,
Guera,
La consentida,
Her chula,
Visiting with her family
During the summer,
La temporada de lluvia.

 

A curving banister and stairs
Divided the house.
The first floor held the foyer,
Living room,
Dining room,
And bath.
An open-air atrium
Separated the dining room
From the kitchen.
This open space within the house,
Let the water fall
From sky to stone,
As though it rained
From ceiling to floor.

How did we fit,
In that tiny
Two-story house?
A practical spell
Solved the riddle.
Dad, Mom, Tito,
Tita, Gracie, and me,
Merged with
Mima, Pepe, Totis,
Lalo, and Mima Rosi.
Two or three to a bed,
With every sofa
And couch in use.
That was how we lived
In the magical house
On Chopo Street.

My daily chore was to seek
The tortilleria on another street,
And run back in time for dinner
With a bundled nest of hot, fresh
Tortillas de maize.
The Cena was our feast
Of food, talk, and laughter.
Mima would serve caldo, sopa de arroz,
And listen, with a musing smile,
As Pepe, el profe, directed the talk
And Lalo, el lic., laughed and joked.
Totis would keep the tone lively and light,
Assuring that the meal ended happily and right.

In the mornings I’d awaken
To hear the brush, brush, brush,
Of brooms on wet stone.
I’d look through the pots and planters
That bordered the window,
Past the ferns and flowers
That was my garden,
On Chopo Street.

I’d see the adolescent indias
Rushing across the cement
As they adjusted their shawls
Over their braided hair.
Knocking on the ornate doors,
Of the families they served.
They bowed,
Entered,
And disappeared.