Singing with Elephants

POETRY IS A DANCEof words on the page.These poems are a storyabout the summerI learnedhow to twirland leapon paper.It was the summer when I met a famous poetand a family of musical elephants.Until then, all I could do was wishlike a caged songbird wordless wistful wishful . . .SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA~ 1947 ~MUSICAL ELEPHANTS ARE LIKEmountains with windy whispers,the sea when it roars or chants a lullaby,tree branches that clack like maracas,and every animal that opens its mouthto howl, bark, or chantabout the freedomto walk, walk, walk,rejoicing in the sheer joyof touchinggreen earthwith rhythmic feetand dancingminds.ONE DAYI’m rhythmically walking, walking, walking,with various creatures on comically tangledleashes, when we reach the garden of a cozy-lookinghouseright across from the high school, and there, kneelingas if in prayeris a stranger.She’s old, but her face looks strong.I wonder if my own dark eyebrowsare as winged as hersready to riseand flylike feathers.Pleased to meet you, I say in English.She glances up.This is my giant wolfhound Floraand my miniature goat Fauna, but the pigletsand ducklings are just temporary patientsfrom our veterinary clinicwhere my parents are the doctorsand I’m almost a sort of eleven-year-old nursebecause I feed, clean, pet, cuddle, walk, walk, walk,and sometimes I even help with unusual animalsat a wildlife zoo-ranchwhere adventurous moviesare often filmed.I’m going to be a healer one day . . .My voicetrails awaywhen I see her frownand glance down at her notebookand realize—I have disturbed her.I DON’T BELONG HEREThe stranger studies me.What is she thinking?Is she wise?Could we be friends?I wonderwhetherI’ve saidtoo much,madetoo manymistakesin inglés.I wonder . . .Would this woman careif I told herabout the girls at schoolwho make funof me for beingsmallbrownishchubbywith curly black hair barely tamedby a long braid?Would she care that the girls at schoolcall mezoo beastwhen my clean clothessmell a bit like animals?Would she care that the boys call meuglystupidtongue-tiedbecause my accent gets strongerwhen I’m nervous, like whenthe teacher forces me to readout loud?I wonder.IF ONLY THE WRITERcould speak my true language.She does!Te gusta la poesía, she says,telling me that I like poetryHer español is rhythmic like a song,slower than mine, and fancier,with words that sound like theybelong in a book, which is whatshe says she’s writing—a volume of verses.Voy a adivinar, she says—I’m going to guess.Vienes para aprender a escribir la poesía.You’ve come to learn how to write poetry.Should I answer honestly?I simply shrug, embarrassed to admitthat I came for many reasons,to see whoshe isand whatshe’s doing,and because I’mlonely.PERHAPS SHE CAN SEEinside my heart.Because she doesn’t tell me to leave,just saysI will teach youlike I haven’t bothered her at all,like it’s no big deal I’m here.I tell her my classmates sayI ask too many questions.Ay, no, she insists—no importa,she will teach me a bit about writing.Poetry is like a planet, she says,each word spinsorbitstwirlsand radiatesreflectedstarlight.If you want to write, you have to observemovements, and absorbstillness.She smiles, and reaches to pat Flora’shuge head, which only encourages my sloppy dogto lick her hand, while Fauna just does what goatsalways do, nibbles on the edges of the notebook,and the hem of la poeta’s dress, and a buttonon her blouse.I pull all the animals awaybefore they can start eating her hair.ME ENCANTAN TODAS LAS BESTIECITASI love all animals,the poetry teacher says.I smile, because animalsare my family’s whole life,now that my grandmais gone.I wonder if the poetry teacherwould like to see my parents’ clinicafter my poetry lesson.Do you write in English or in Spanish?I ask.I tell her I’ve been trying topractice English for school,but Spanish feels like home.Una mezcla, la poeta suggests,let us mix our languages togetherlike emotions that swirl and blendin a pot of paint, azul y rojobecoming purple, amarillo y azulturning to green.LANGUAGE IS A MYSTERYAfter a whole year in California,español is still the only way of speakingthat feels completely natural to me,letters like ñ and rrhidden inside my island-mindwhere words are so much more alivethan in my incompleteimmigration-mouth.The poet switches to inglésjust to help me—but animalsdon’t recognize my effortto make senseof letters like a ythat sounds like my lland an h that is not silentand a k that does not even existin Spanish—sotodas las bestiecitasbegin to bark, bleat, quack, and grunta humorous animal operaso ridiculous and endearing that for the first timesince Abuelita’s funeral, I actually chuckleand laugh out loud—a genuine carcajada, a guffaw!How wondrous it feelsto remember that laughterhas no language, and can crossany boundary line,even the wavy onesbetween species.