Soundscape as Sestina

How the room never danced because Pa never playedJuan Gabriel or other Mexican vocalistsin our house while growing up. After crossing the borderhe must've ditched a suitcase of himself at U.S. Customs.Maybe he never brought a suitcase. Or maybe he felt mixedabout raising kids in a middle-class neighborhood

so assimilated himself to suburban neighborswhile we ran outside with footballs and playedlike all-Americans. In elementary, I mixed upmy place, sat next to Dannys and Michaels, my voiceforgetting its music. I became accustomedto whiteness, neglected the border's

motherhood. I used to doodle in class, on the bordersof my notebook, before I visited Pa's childhoodhome in Xalapa and began to trust the customof eating tortillas with every meal. Still, I never heard Pa playSpanish music, didn't catch him wandering the vocalsof a Juan Gabriel song. He never mixed

music with pleasure, preferred the mixtureof elegance and fine dining in downtowns. He borderedon being white-washed, but was never mistaken as a localby the families who owned property here. He loved the neighborhood,never wanted me to leave, was probably scared I'd playaround and discover earthquakes. I did. Customized

myself, learned how to change into costumeswhen needed by blasting hip-hop. I feel mixedabout not knowing Juan Gabriel's lyrics, about playingTupac more than mariachis. I became a borderlandof tongues, a mezcla of eyes. I navigated new neighborhoodsand followed the distance of inner voices

telling me to fly far away. Even though I am voicelessat times and accustomedto breakage, I break neighborhoodsopen and let oceans swim inside me, a mixtapeof blood and knuckles swelling within borderedsoundscapes, something new in my stereo always playing.