by Adela Najarro
My father grew up under a verdant jungle sky
and inhaled ash from erupting volcanoes.
He listened to el perico verde de Nicaragua.
She always told him what he had done wrong.
My father chewed limes with salt since he knew bitter times.
My father sliced olives into arroz con pollo and was happy.
He never bit a red apple, only the green one Eve handed
him from the nightstand before she turned off the lights.
My father was grassy green lust that loved platanos fritos.
The jungles of his youth, smoldering calderas, and the perico verde
stole all the limes, olives, and apples.
My father became a broken green couch, old from too much wear.
My father wore a green bathrobe over a white v-neck t-shirt
and striped pajama bottoms.
On his feet were worn brown leather slippers.
He picked dried green leaves from artificial carnations.
One windy afternoon, he faded into a light green afternoon
and left three platanos in a bowl on the kitchen table.
Adela Najarro, whose extended family emigrated from Nicaragua, is the author of three poetry collections. Her writing has appeared in Nimrod, Crab Orchard Review, Puerto del Sol, Blue Mesa Review, and many others. She teaches creative writing, literature, and composition at Cabrillo College. Click here to visit her website.