When You’ll Hear Sana Sana

Ishmael Zaragoza

When your knees burn

from rolling down hills of tall grass.

When you dance barefoot on honey-oak floors

and a splinter slivers into your toe.

When a pebble jumps into your shoe

as you hop onto the number two,

scribbled on the pavement in pink chalk.

When you check underneath your bed

for El Coco and carelessly hit your head,

Mami y Papi will take their palms,

massage it, and sing

Sana, sana, colita de rana.

Sana, sana, colita de rana.

When you wake to chiles de arbol

smoking spice into your eyes,

in the sweltering summer morning.

When the birthday punches tie-dye

your shoulder, purple and indigo.

When the straightening iron sears your ear

and the bus driver asks why

you’re hiding a cherry tomato in your hair.

You might fight away the nimble hands,

swatting them like flies.

You might roll your eyes when you hear,

Sana, sana, colita de rana.

Sana, sana, colita de rana.

When you flip your tortillas on the comal,

set over a blue flame, but your fingers slip

and the iron toasts your thumb a bit.

When you slice your knuckle,

instead of tape; for the box

of clothes you’ll take to your dorm.

When you’re late for class

and you run face first into a door

made of glass; that day,

your eyebrow will slowly rise,

when you realize

no one is singing,

Sana, sana, colita de rana.

When you go outside

and look up at the sky, you’ll find

Mami y Papi drawn in the chalky clouds

or cast in the shadow of a honey-oak tree

and hear them sing through the winds

that brush hills dressed in tall grass

on a summer afternoon.

That is when you will hear

Sana, sana, colita de rana.

Sana, Sana, colita de rana.

Si no sanas hoy,

sanarás mañana