EL SALVADOR
PART 1
She wore the torn and dingy apron
with watermelon pockets,
and plopped about the kitchen
like a child early in the morning
In my tiptoes, I sneaked behind her
and pull at the apron knot
One small step and the apron
falls from her cumbia waist
She chases me with a spatula
out of the kitchen, into the streets,
her body sagging in slow motion
I loved her red angry face
like a wrinkled tomato
I loved her from Santa Ana
to the craters of the moon
from Los Angeles
to a grain of sand in Acajutla
Now the yellowed apron
hangs in a dusty corner
in my fatherís kitchen
Her body sinks in a grave
and I begin to plop about my kitchen
In dreams, I spit watermelon seeds
in the palm of her hand
William Archila
William Archila was born in 1968 in Santa Ana, El Salvador, where he grew up between catholic school and the civil war. In the eighties, he escaped the war, and sneaked into the states when no one was looking. He faked the English language in the classroom, high school and university, and fell between the broken sentences of two languages. His work has appeared in literary journals, and has been anthologized in New to North America: Writing by Immigrants, and The Practice of Peace. Lately, he has been accused of teaching ESL at Lincoln High in Lincoln Heights. As a former altar boy, he recommends staying out of church, politics and the police department.