Benito

Minay Baltazar

The río balsas runs 479 miles long.

When my father was a child it was vibrant, full of life.

The older he got, the less its water flowed near his town.

The older he got, the less fish and more worry he carried.

The average person can hold their breath for 2 minutes.

Some hold their breath for an eternity.

But Benito was valiente, younger, and he’d jump

right into the rapids, hold his breath.

Or maybe he was just menso, for leaping like that

without thinking of his mother, his father, his brother

standing there watching.

Once, he didn’t come up like usual.

My dad stood, fear seeping through his palms.

He drowned, didn’t he? The river took him.

What will I tell ama?

It sure felt like eternity.

Another stubborn child,

a few months prior had.

So why would this be any different.

All brown boys who are valiente

end up dead anyway

one way or another.

Sweat dripping from my father’s temples,

the glistening light of a scorching summer afternoon,

river waves crashing.

This little boy, pensando lo peor,

would never imagine that besides

his precious river

his menso little brother

his tierra caliente would also

be dying,

dwindling away slowly.

A new river forming,

479 miles of bullets and blood,

carrying the weight of all the people

who also held their breath.

And others would simply look at his tierra

with disdain,

and he would just watch, from 2,000 miles away.

¡Y que por fin sale Benito!

All the anger, worry, pain, eternity,

replaced by innocent chocolate colored eyes again,

a goofy smile from ear to ear.

¡Ándale métete guey, está bien rica el agua¡