VIKING An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2022 Copyright 2022 by Margarita Engle Animals/Animales in
The Selected Poems of Gabriela Mistral translated by Ursula K. Le Guin, printed with permission granted by University of New Mexico Press. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Viking & colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available. Ebook ISBN 9780593206713 Cover art 2022 by Oriol Vidal Cover design by Jessica Jenkins Edited by Liza Kaplan Design by Monique Sterling, adapted for ebook by Andrew Wheatley This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. pid_prh_6.0_140118227_c0_r0 For teachers
and future teachers
with gratitude, admiration, and hope
POETRY IS A DANCE
of words on the page. These poems are a story about the summer I learned how to twirl and leap on paper. It was the summer when I met a famous poet and a family of musical elephants. Until then, all I could do was wish like a caged songbird wordless wistful wishful...
ONE DAY
Im rhythmically walking, walking, walking, with various creatures on comically tangled leashes, when we reach the garden of a cozy-looking house right across from the high school, and there, kneeling as if in prayer is a stranger.
ONE DAY
Im rhythmically walking, walking, walking, with various creatures on comically tangled leashes, when we reach the garden of a cozy-looking house right across from the high school, and there, kneeling as if in prayer is a stranger.
Shes old, but her face looks strong. I wonder if my own dark eyebrows are as winged as hers ready to rise and fly like feathers. Pleased to meet you, I say in English. She glances up. This is my giant wolfhound Flora and my miniature goat Fauna, but the piglets and ducklings are just temporary patients from our veterinary clinic where my parents are the doctors and Im almost a sort of eleven-year-old nurse because I feed, clean, pet, cuddle, walk, walk, walk, and sometimes I even help with unusual animals at a wildlife zoo-ranch where adventurous movies are often filmed. Im going to be a healer one day...
My voice trails away when I see her frown and glance down at her notebook and realize I have disturbed her.
I DONT BELONG HERE
The stranger studies me. What is she thinking? Is she wise? Could we be friends? I wonder whether Ive said too much, made too many mistakes in ingls. I wonder... Would this woman care if I told her about the girls at school who make fun of me for being small brownish chubby with curly black hair barely tamed by a long braid? Would she care that the girls at school call me zoo beast when my clean clothes smell a bit like animals? Would she care that the boys call me ugly stupid tongue-tied because my accent gets stronger when Im nervous, like when the teacher forces me to read out loud? I wonder.
IF ONLY THE WRITER
could speak my true language.
She does! Te gusta la poesa, she says, telling me that I like poetry Her espaol is rhythmic like a song, slower than mine, and fancier, with words that sound like they belong in a book, which is what she says shes writing a volume of verses. Voy a adivinar, she saysIm going to guess. Vienes para aprender a escribir la poesa. Youve come to learn how to write poetry. Should I answer honestly? I simply shrug, embarrassed to admit that I came for many reasons, to see who she is and what shes doing, and because Im lonely.
PERHAPS SHE CAN SEE
inside my heart.
Because she doesnt tell me to leave, just says I will teach you like I havent bothered her at all, like its no big deal Im here. I tell her my classmates say I ask too many questions. Ay, no, she insistsno importa, she will teach me a bit about writing. Poetry is like a planet, she says, each word spins orbits twirls and radiates reflected starlight. If you want to write, you have to observe movements, and absorb stillness. She smiles, and reaches to pat Floras huge head, which only encourages my sloppy dog to lick her hand, while Fauna just does what goats always do, nibbles on the edges of the notebook, and the hem of la poetas dress, and a button on her blouse.
I pull all the animals away before they can start eating her hair.
ME ENCANTAN TODAS LAS BESTIECITAS
I love all animals, the poetry teacher says. I smile, because animals are my familys whole life, now that my grandma is gone. I wonder if the poetry teacher would like to see my parents clinic after my poetry lesson. Do you write in English or in Spanish? I ask. I tell her Ive been trying to practice English for school, but Spanish feels like home.
Una mezcla, la poeta suggests, let us mix our languages together like emotions that swirl and blend in a pot of paint, azul y rojo becoming purple, amarillo y azul turning to green.
LANGUAGE IS A MYSTERY
After a whole year in California, espaol is still the only way of speaking that feels completely natural to me, letters like and
rr hidden inside my island-mind where words are so much more alive than in my incomplete immigration-mouth. The poet switches to ingls just to help mebut animals dont recognize my effort to make sense of letters like a
y that sounds like my
ll and an
h that is not silent and a
k that does not even exist in Spanishso todas las bestiecitas begin to bark, bleat, quack, and grunt a humorous animal opera so ridiculous and endearing that for the first time since Abuelitas funeral, I actually chuckle and laugh out louda genuine carcajada, a guffaw! How wondrous it feels to remember that laughter has no language, and can cross any boundary line, even the wavy ones between species.
CHILD OF THE ARK
Each time I leave our clinic-house with assorted creatures on leashes, my big sister, Catalina, says I look like a refugee from Noahs Ark. I call her Cat, and she calls me Olivia a mythical saint who never actually existed; but Abuelita loved to imagine that she was a real woman who carried an olive branch for peace but to everyone else, Im Oriol.
MY WISHING WINDOW
Now, here in this foreign country with Abuelita above me in Heaven, all I have left that belonged to her is a little blue glass statuette a figurine an elephant that sparkles like starlight.
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