Pizza
I sit in East Hialeah,
a white, leather-top stool at Mr. Bee’s Pizza,
a leftover outdoor ‘50s soda shop
just off Palm Avenue.
These are out days with Father,
and this is his favorite spot.
Mabel and Mitzy shift their weight
to their feet, push into a spin.
Father lets them, so does Mr. Bee,
and we drink 10-ounce bottles
of Coca-Cola with our slices
while Father and Mr. Bee try
to understand each other’s language.
It is our first year in Miami.
Mother works days, Father nights,
and in that small, one-bedroom apartment
Tía Estela rented for us a year before we arrived,
we watch American cartoons—
Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry—
run around the orange trees in the backyard,
think the world is 310 East 10th Street,
walks to and from El Caibarién,
Coca-Cola, a slice
of pizza.
—Sandra M. Castillo, Eating Moors and Christians
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