Do you really even speak Spanish?

If by really you mean honestly, like a five-year-old speaks

when she says “mommy, you don’t smell very nice,” like pinky promises,

like cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die swears,

like only a birth certificate can prove,

like someone with everything to lose—

then Yes, every sing-song syllable is uttered from my lips,

sí, and “no.” Wait. I have made it up—I never spoke Spanish in my

life—

and when I say I can dance salsa, it means the music

never existed, a whole dance with no rhythm.

Can you imagine “la clave” with no sound, how many

hip swishes with no drums? Even now, the notes are coming

together

but jumbled—a trumpet tooting, a symbol

quietly crashing

on the stage. Voices humming, and band members

standing-statues. Her voice muted,

forming

the “oo” in “azúcar,” and every

single

note, I have never heard before.