I guess this next poem I think of as a signature poem
because it's so autobiographical.
And I like the poem, too, because this
is one of the ones I struggled, probably, five or six
years to find a title for.
So I guess, on the one hand, writing the poem was fun to do,
and on the other hand, the challenge of finding
the appropriate title--
and fighting for an appropriate title--
was one I thought I wasn't going to win.
So I'm very pleased with the title "Squaring the Names"
because, for me, it works on so many levels--
the mathematical part of me that wishes it
were more mathematical and the part of me
that feels boxed in sometimes and the part of me
that tries to find other boxes to escape to.
"When we caught lice in third grade,
Tony's mother soaked his hair in kerosene.
His hair fell out, exposing a football-shaped skull.
Pelón, we chanted, Pelón, cabeza de melón.
[LAUGHTER]
We forgot his name but not his bald head,
not even when his hair grew back.
The Chávez's oldest girl wore a cheerleader skirt and a letter
on her boxy orange sweater.
La Barbie, we called her, as in Barbie doll.
And Jorge was her football captain, Ken.
And there was Pineapple for his chunky shape,
Shorty because he was.
And Be-Tween, the youngest of the twins.
My favorites were Punkin with her fiery red hair,
and Hollywood for his gold chains.
For a while, I was a barrio sweetheart, la consentida,
with my Shirley Temple curls to my waist.
Too bad I wore bifocals--
bookworm, brain, Coke-bottle eyes.
My aunt switched to Spanish when I came around.
I stayed bilingual.
When they caught me listening to the gossip about my godmother,
her boyfriend, 10 years younger, they shrieked, coliche,
quién te invito?
I told an uncle that he lacked the right chromosome, which
was why he only had daughters.
I'd read that somewhere.
I'll never forget how my mother signaled with her eyes,
warning yet amused, how my uncle hollered, cabrona,
somebody should wash your mouth out with soap.
All these names, I saved for myself.
When my mother introduced me to her uncle last year, she said,
soy Tomasa, esposa de Manuel, y ésta es mi hija Diana,
la más grande.
There it was, the formal genealogy.
I am Tomasa, wife of Manuel.
And this is my daughter, Diana, the oldest.
I am Diana la cazadora, keening calls
to the hunt on moon-hard nights.
I respond to orejona, ears bent to the shape of your size.
Call me la chismosa.
Your secrets glide in neon past my gaze.
Charm me with cabrona, rutting female goat, name of admiration
for those who won't back down.
Beware, la hocicona, the unmuzzled jaw,
the one whose heart rules her tongue, the one whose
tongue savors life."
Ha.
[LAUGHS]
[APPLAUSE]