Stephen Energia

Sestina for the Dance Floor, for the Backyard Party, for My Scattered Bees

Oh, I want to sing. My tenor tends uneven, so this is my song for my family,
for my brothers brawling through summer, for the pride in a well edged fade.
Oh, sing for my siblings, sing slowly their patience for my stumbling salsa.
Sing smoking grills. Sing whirring bugs. Sing our time together, slow drip of honey.
Oh, running cousins. Oh, extension cords across the yard. Oh, jumbo coolers, open!
Sing! Beloveds across the carport bake. More fold dough. We unfold tables.

What is cousin to an unsung song, an unwritten draft? An empty table,
waiting. I want to fill it, chop peppers, pull up chairs, make my family
a feast. We feast on empanadas, apple crisp, key lime pie—an open
sourced meal. In the humid air: a wedding, a friend’s friend’s quince—the parties fade
together, blend into a history of celebration—Teresa’s cake, Marta’s tamales, honey
baked ham. My mom bakes a crisp to make you cry—she avoids the sting of salsa.

She is sensitive to heat—her buds taste too well—but she ensures I try the salsa.
Elsewhere, Javi’s brother cuts habañeros, heat on my nose. Fake fruit tops the table
where I sip his mother’s soup, red with hot sauce, swirls of lime. At school, I gorge on honey
buns, Duchess Jumbos. Most kids here look like me, but don’t act like family—
precious few have seen my home. Fewer knew it, really, its glories in their periphery, fading.
Sing, oh sing, for the glories of my home. Sing for my family, our neighborhood wide, open.

Sing for the dance floor at the beach club, at the rec center. Sing my beloveds filling open
spaces with their feet. Xay sways a confident two step. Marcela dazzles around in a salsa
to write home about. Javi mingles between songs. A shy dancer, I step out. Music fades
behind the glass, leaving scattered voices. As my body cools, I hesitate between a settled table
and the scene at the balcony: smoke in air, water reflecting city, clubbers calling family.
Tonight someone finds me, nudges me back to the dance floor, turns my fear to honey.

We whir our dance. We sting worries. I sing: my act of love, my process of honey.
Hornets in tuxedos target our hive. They sting politely, patrol our park, open
our homes for development. Developers turn homes to shops, keep the familial
vibe. The hornet developers love our neighborhood, but leave little room for our salsa.
Sing the bees who flew away. Sing the ones pushed out, all these empty seats at our table.
Sing storms to the hornets, humidity to the shops. Sing them crumbling until they, too, fade.

The hornets buzz steril songs, sing beautification, sing uplift. But we aren’t ones to fade.
We scattered bees shine. Marcela strides, always. Javi swaggers natural. Xay honeys
speech like few others, acrobats his mind. Alex keeps his cool, keeps feet forward. Our tables
are stacked, our houses full. But yes, we bees scatter indeed, our hive burst open
across the world. I fly home, seldom. Busy in the blue ridge, I begin learning salsa,
my stumbled steps sharpening. I want my feet to sing, sing for my far flown family.

Sing my patchwork family. Sing loud, our feet heating the floor—bees, daring summer to fade.
Sing us feasting, plates full, lathered in salsa. Sing the cooks, sing the charcoal, sing honey.
I sing you, beloved chorus, scattered chorus who opened your doors, made me at your table.

Café Listo

My father begins the day simple:
a spoon or two of nescafé, sugar,

and a bread from one of the panaderias
in the city. Sometime he picks pan

dulce, sometimes a roll stuffed
with cheese, sometimes he lets

me choose, but he always chooses
the store—he knows I might choose

one of the places he doesn’t like.
I’ve been gone so long, after all,

and he knows his world, to me,
is still so new—America raised

me into someone unfamiliar
with his home, unfamiliar with him.

In the store, he makes sure
to grab a bag or two of milk.

At home, he makes sure I cut
the bag right this time—One

time I cut so badly the milk
went everywhere except the cup.

Yes, I once spilled it in the fridge too.
I seem so young for someone

who has been gone for so long.
At lunch, my father feasts, eats

better than I do back with my mom.
But for dinner, he ends every day

the way he starts it: café listo, milk,
and pan. I don’t know if he prefers

this pattern, or simply learned it.
I didn’t ask—there are so many

things I didn’t ask. My spanish
and his english left so many gaps.

For years, we didn’t know
each others’ faces, voices.

Too many nights, I chose not to join
him at the table. There are so many

memories with gaps.
But there are—as well—those nights

we sat together, understanding as best
as we could. Ending the day how

we started it: breaking bread,
and drinking something warm.