Mi Familia Costariccense

They lived in the hills above Alajuela
When they took me in.
This is our house,
Typical Costa Rican style,
Low to the ground,
Tin roof best for the constant rain,
Screened space between roof and walls
Best for the constant heat.
You can see we are only 6 degrees from the equator
By the coronet of sweat on our brows.
You would never know,
Looking at this photograph,
That I had been afraid
Of them when I first arrived:
Afraid that my tongue would forget how to curl
Around la lengua,
Or forget the flavor of the word español.
You can see how patient they are,
It shines in their eyes
Like the sun setting over la Isla Tortuga.
The children, Carolína y César,
Hold my hands
Because I had become una hermana,
A part of la familia.
Caro is small and thin,
Una flaca,
But see how large her head is?
Ella es muy intelligente,
And always has time for conversation.
César likes video games and fútbol,
And always laughs like a jackal at my accent.
Lourdes holds Naomy on her hip,
As if su hija had never been separated
From her by the process of birth.
Naomy’s easy smile
Is evidence that she is una milagro.
Her heart is bigger than anyone’s before her
Because su corazón swallowed death
And digested it like leche.
You will notice the lack of any distinguishing marks
On the outside wall of la casa.
Our address was peculiar:
We did not have a street name,
Or a house number.
Mail, or a ride home in a taxi,
Was directed thus:
Carrillos Altos,
Trés metros despúes del cemetário,
Un grande árbol en el frente:
High Streets,
Three meters after the cemetery,
Big tree in the front.
That’s the tree there to the right of us.
The cemetery is actually across the street.
Our house looks upon it with an open face.
The graves are above ground because of the excessive rain,
Just like the famous cemeteries in New Orleans
You can’t see it,
But three rows in, and four rows over,
That tomb there is protected by the same
Blue-flowered tile as my bathroom.
I stared long and hard at the grave,
Trying to connect grief with bathing.