“This poem is en English“
to avoid confusion
this poem is read without an acento
to teach standard English
this poem can be read by non-native/foreign/international/multilingual/English Learners/ESLs
to help native listeners not feel excluded
only these few non-English words are included:
couillon
la wea
che
and cochon de lait
now couillon I learned back in sophomore year of high school, a dirty one, from Lafayette that girl, has family that talks with that thick French accent, she taught me this quick two syllable word
sometimes spelled c-o-o-y-o-n
Couillon! we laughed and whispered in Bible class
la wea on the other hand
is nothing and everything at once
the what-comes-after ¡puta! in Chile
the weird contraption in the kitchen
that has no name
until the mansplainer comes over one day
and tells you (enlightens you)
There is such a name for this trinket!
Let me explain!
¿Que wea-uhhh…? can be asked with apathy
and moaned in abandonment
to convey deep disinterest and disappointment
or emphatically like wut da fuck: QUE WEA-UH!
La wea is a verb, a conjunction
and the thing that makes me know
I have to write.
che starts nipping at your ears the farther you stray away from Chile’s Pacific coast, ramblin to the Atlantic,
slow at first, then it speeds up:
che che che,
che this, che that,
¿che wanna hangout?
che sorry I couldn’t make it,
che pass the vino,
che estaba pensando en vos,
che it’s not that deep,
che I thought we were friends,
che stop yelling at me,
che will you ever come?
che pass the mate.
cochon de lait is what they were gonna have
that weekend at the bonfire
and I was allowed to go.
Ya gonna hafta take a bath after if you go!
Y’all gonna reek of smoke.
Capture the flag, rounds of card games,
who’s gonna pick who for each team,
and Look, there’s the pig!
Is that the pig we sang to last year
with all her piglets?
Looks like Pumbaa from Lion King,
but pink with little gray spots on her skin.
She’s huge, round, and rotating.
The flames could melt my light pink crocks
and yep, reeks of smoke.
At the cochon de lait
I hear him call her a couillon
and she says she wants anything
except what they have
whatever other wea is out there
and he said che
we can work things out, bebe—
My heel slides out and touches the yucky mud,
my light pink crocks are all dirty.
I bury my back, myself, deeper into the scratchy
hay bale pillows.
I hate when people fight
and I don’t wanna be seen.
© 2024 Elisabeth Perez
© 2022 Elisabeth Perez
foliosa-flores 