To Zafra

~ after Nick Carbó



All I know of Zafra is that it is a small 
town in the province of Badajoz, about two 

hours away from Seville, snuggled deep 
in southern Extremadura. My fierce, paternal 

grandmother Irene, whose maiden name was Zafra, 
liked to boast of how her family's roots go back

to this place. Whether or not that claim was true,
she and my father had the same cool, grey-blue eyes, 

in a country where everyone else had brown skin, 
dark hair, dark eyes. On its tourism pages, scenes

look straight out of history books on the Spanish 
colonial period in the Philippines—balconajes 

overlooking cobblestone squares, churches adorned
with gold and murals; a palace and fortress, a prison, 

a convent, a school. On what street did my grandfather 
and great-grandfather live, and where did they roam 

in this town of olives and cheese, oxtail stew, tinto 
de Verano? If someday I make my way to Zafra, 

maybe I'll comb through yellowed pages of registry 
books and try to search for their names. Maybe I'll let 

the wind tuck me into an envelope of anonymity, 
and remain there for another hundred years.