Aunt Chuchita

From October 24, 2006

She smoked Salems

at the same time

she muttered Spanish,

pious, paging through

her beloved prayer books,

felty with use,

the loosened pages secured

inside with a rubber band

or two.

Devout and demented,

slowly unbraiding

her long gray hair,

keeping close track

of the bobby pins

or someone might

steal them.

Hijole!

And then a spew

of unintelligible

over-the-border language.

Words of love,

words of annoyance.

Green eyes,

tilted up at the edges,

magnified by laugh lines

and wire rims that clutch

her lengthening, velvet lobes.

Sturdy body

tucked into cotton dresses

buttoned down the front,

showing one hip

higher than another.

Aunt Chucita,

who wanted

to be a nun in Mexico

but snuffed that dream

to help her hermana

raise five children

in the roaring, racist 20s

of hot, sticky Houston,

long before air-conditioning.

She never missed a day of prayer

or finished one without a smoke.

Image by wonderlane

For Wendy, who tames my hair

I call this a wrist wreath. I've made way too many, but I think this one's my favorite. Beads with stripes follow me home wherever I go. We seem to have boundary issues.

Skeleton Leaves

November 30, 2005

Leaves pace the sidewalk.

Not may left now--they look nervous.

Rakes have abducted most of them,

big callous hands herding them into

slick black bags.

A few escapees will be flattened

by an early snowfall.

Waterlogged at first,

misshapen clumps of tree detritus

and fading color and brilliance.

They'll cling to each other

till the sun, earnest and angular,

crisps them back,

loosens their sticky grip and

curls their edges into razors

slicing apart the safety of numbers.

Brittle and separate again.

Swirls of wind agitate them,

sending them nowhere

except the edges of sidewalks.

Every so often, random survivors cling

to some one's shoe or blow up

against a furry jacket--one last hope

But some child needs to find

a delicate leaf skeleton

when spring returns,

and wonder.

Picasa photo by WallMeadows

Homage to Hopper

It's late. Too late.

Ruth has herself a man for the night

But he won't be there tomorrow.

She's finished her coffee and

is reapplying her lipstick.

The rest of her makeup may be threadbare

but her hair is holding up just fine.

She chose her dress well this evening--

Burnt sienna, raw silk,

close in color to her hair,

tight across her broad shoulders

and just enough scoop to seduce.

Roger just wants to go home.

He doesn't care if anyone tips him.

Go home for chrissakes, or wherever

it is you  go at 3 am!

He can smell the the alcohol burning

off their breath and can't decide

whether to make another pot of coffee.

His back hurts, but if he stays

bent at this angle, he can get relief.

Problem is it makes people think

he's interested in having a conversation

when all he wants is to close shop

and go to his room above the diner

It's late. Too late.

Envy: Geese on the Saint Croix

From March 25, 2006

I have two feet, flat and wide--

why can't I stand about smugly

on frozen river water receding by the day?

I can flap my two wide arms--

Why can't I launch into spring chill air

with wings full and open and nonchalant?

My nose is large and silly--

Why can't I bellow and call and honk and fuss

with no remorse?

My body fills out, round, plain and ungainly--

why can't I sway side to side in icy water

until I lurch clumsily ashore using no arms?

Well,

say the wet, fallen trees

growing lichen like row upon row of fan-colored fans

and smelling of musk and mold:

perhaps in another life, dear

Photo courtesy of Ross/Picassa