Translingual Poetry

Below are two translingual poems of mine:

“This poem is en English” and “(pirogues/ mattresses.”

I hope you enjoy the read.

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.