Enyay (ñ)

You’re three years old and correcting
your father’s English, learning
to recognize letters in an alphabet
that has no “ñ,” now demanding
sandwiches for preschool
like everyone else, and then
throwing away the bread,
looking up with your hazel eyes
framed in golden hair, explaining
why you’ve rejected arroz con frijoles,
half of your identity erased
with your lost ñ, because
“beans are yucky for the teachers.”


This is an old poem about an even older memory, nearly 20 years ago.


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