The Day Jorge Negrete Died in L.A.

My aunt was not among the Mexican women
who took their lives that December day of 1953 

when Negrete died—only forty two, famous 
film star and pop singer with opera-trained voice.

His body was flown back to Mexico, 
where every radio played his prophetic song:

México lindo y querido,
si muero lejos de ti,
que digan que estoy dormido, 
y que me traigan aquí.

A year later, I rehearsed manhood 
as the Hi-Fi boomed his melodies.

Swollen with borrowed bravado, I’d strut and sing 
Me gusta cantarle al viento 
porque vuelan mis cantares
y digo lo que yo siento
por toditos los lugares
until Dad snickered at my off-key machismo

and told me the story of how Negrete, 
then a gallant cadet, courted his sister.

I still picture his words, as if a forties film.
A resonant voice rises from mariachi to balcony. 

Negrete follows up a ladder, white roses in hand,
declares his love for my aunt, 

radiant in her red robe. Her grandmother, 
Mama Meche, sniffs, Absolutely not, 

that boy does nothing but croon and carouse.
In tears, my aunt hands back the roses.

I still search for my voice, never inherited, 
my almost Uncle Jorge’s baritone.