rice with my spaghetti


rice with my spaghetti
i was raised
brown brown brown

my brother adds some
hot sauce, i think that’s
brown brown brown

danced to Suavemente
i would get
down down down

i used to do this
secret move, i spun
around ’round ’round

we had a dog
named Benji.
he shit the
house house house

so we straight up
just got rid of him,
that might be
brown brown brown

the ruler or the belt?
my mom smacked me
down down down

lord knows
i deserved every
ground-and-pound

only been to
Ecuador
when i was four

to bury my
father and
mourn mourn mourn

lost my language,
lost my culture,
don’t make no Spanish
sound sound sounds

yet i got the highest
grades in Spanish class,
perks of being
brown brown brown

it’s strange having deserted
my culture, my language,
religion, and my homestate,
my best friends, my workplace,
traditions and my family.

sometimes it feels like
it’s all deserted me.

if i had a child,
what would they inherit?
a couple thousand bucks,
a chevy cruze,
the power language?

no spaghetti wit the rice,
no sounds of Spanish
in their home, they won’t
even know to love New York.

just a father
with a screw loose.
i would have loved
to have even that.

he’ll have the
brown brown brown skin,
and learn to live with that.

and place importance
or the lack
of where he comes from
and where he’s at.

“rice with my spaghetti”
©Steven Cuenca

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