Yaguareté White
Moving through the ambiguities of language—English, Spanish, and Paraguay’s Indigenous Guaraní—the grin of a big cat shadowing his every unstealthy step through North and South American habitats and fixed ideas of manhood, Diego Baéz shows his discomfort to be a fascinating field of study. A finalist and semifinalist respectively for the Georgia Poetry Prize and Berkshire Prize for Poetry, he teaches at Chicago’s City Colleges.
LYNCH CHRISTMAS
My uncle—my white uncle—
built me an Amnesty House.
I lived there, in the gingerbread,
ice white frosting, black licorice
barring white windows,
Life Saver over the entrance.
Come on, of course
you have to laugh, my uncle—
my white uncle—says.
Yuck yuck and hardy har.
It’s all fun and games, not directed at me,
because Papi came over the right way:
plane ticket, scholarship, host family.
Passport stamped Asunción, Miami, Chicago.
My father plucked sesame seeds off his hamburger buns.
He thought they were fungus or bugs.
He never really got along with my uncle
—my white uncle—the one who built me
the Amnesty House, where I lived,
downstairs, for a while.
Reviewed by
Matt Sutherland
Disclosure: This article is not an endorsement, but a review. The publisher of this book provided free copies of the book to have their book reviewed by a professional reviewer. No fee was paid by the publisher for this review. Foreword Reviews only recommends books that we love. Foreword Magazine, Inc. is disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
