never sings
the tune - that
song of triumph,
an explosion of
splendid color -
so many others are
used to.
I only watch the two
dance cueca, laughing and
clapping, surrounding by
the cries of onlookers -
“La consentida,
amor de amores,
yo iré contigo”
The words surge
through my bones,
but
my lips fumble, not knowing
what to do;
I open my mouth, horrified
by the flat notes
that blandly ring out.
I fear Mamá has heard, her
tongue so well-rehearsed.
And so I remain silenced,
the glorious sound
just a hummed tune.