A Kind of Spring

The best time to fall in love

is when you share your greatest fear

with someone who isn’t listening.

There’s a decent chance that

will become your newest

greatest fear. There’s no point

in letting it shift to anger; who

do you think will listen to that?

Close your eyes and run as fast

as you can into oncoming traffic.

Whoever stops to save you, marry

them. If no one stops—let’s be honest,

no one will—at least you’ve

made good time home. When someone

talks about the weather on an

elevator, don’t believe them until

they offer a ring. There are spies

everywhere. When your heart stops,

it probably means you’re dead. Don’t

worry. All winter, your joints

have ached with chill. When summer

comes, you open your windows to

sneeze at the world. There’s war

outside, but no one calls it that. If they

do, consider baking something for

them. The brown haired men with

accents all call you sir, and the women

snap at their children to make way

when you pass. Smile. Say something

soothing. Step into the mud. If you can

think of a way to feel better about all

this, of a way to stop the meanness

of the heart, please let me know.  

Honeysuckle Vine

A honeysuckle vine grew down

the ditch wall, choking the bracken

in the corner below the road. We’d

clamber up the debris and washoff

to pick the flowers, taste the drop

of sweet, more taunt than meal,

then slide our muddy jeans down

to the bottom. Sucking steps took

us over to the road, to play in the pipe

that ran under. If you were tall

enough, you could walk it, hands on

one wall, feet on the other. They

told us it was dangerous, what if

it collapsed under the weight

of traffic? When they tried to send

us home or to school over the bridge,

we said but you said it’s too

dangerous, what if the road collapses? 

Writing Spider

It was black with yellow stripes,

or maybe the other way around,

in a big web by the overgrown

back door we were scared of.

The legend was that if you spelled

out a word in stones nearby, it

would copy it into its web. Hence

the story about the needy pig,

though I always preferred the rat.

We started with Fuck. When

that didn’t take, Shit. Maybe

this was a puritanical spider,

so we tried Butt. Inside, the living

room was quiet because Mom

was dying in her bed. The light

faded until Dad dragged in,

slurring his steps and bitching

about the lack of dinner. After

we peeled potatoes and put them

on to fry, I snuck out in the cool

of the porchlight and spelled Help.

Vacuum

Not a heavy weight, more like

carrying around the five extra

pounds from the holidays all year.

Or maybe more like something one

picks up and sets down repeatedly,

like a little screaming baby, rattling

the nerves; one that is never

comforted and never grows up.

Or maybe slightly more weight that

one takes up every several days,

much like the weight of that heavy

vacuum you took from your

Mami’s house. Too unwieldy for

me to use, I say, but you oppose

discarding it. The carpets fill with

fur and dust bunnies take permanent

residence in the corners and beneath

the keyboard no one ever plays.

Thinking to lighten the air, I buy my

own vacuum, bid adieu to those

cute, mini tumbleweeds and groom the

carpet. Still, this weight. It’s most like

the way you look at me, wishing.

Transgendered Ex at Son’s Birthday Party

I think to change into a t-shirt,

            something in which I can chase kids with water guns,

                        something that disregards cleavage and shoulder.

You arrive in a pretty little dress.

            It’s edgy, a sweetheart neckline

                        white with black trim and little crickets and bees perched about.

And those legs, the sort I’ve always wanted — long and lean.

            Why do boys always have the best legs?

                        No saddlebags or cellulite, but smooth exclamation points.

Your legs point up beyond the flared skirt to your new chest that I don’t recognize.

            I adjust my shirt, the one I will not change out of, the one that is not unisex.

            And I reapply my colored lip balm, the same as yours, I gave you last Winter.

I give you a hug and you feel dewy, like a woman glistening.

Never before good at forgetting, I cannot now remember what it was like to be yours.

I hesitate when introducing myself as his mom, with a glance towards you.

            I see your mascara as a challenge and think that I should accent my eyes more.

                        More feminine and brave, I see you as a Goddess, as supernatural as real.

I wish I kept that man I met after you left, the one with the linear thoughts

            who told me that women are from Venus and I talk too much.

                        But only briefly, just to have someone to steady me for a moment.

I avert my eyes as you bend to pick up a candle, a shock of electric blue peeking out.

            I imagine the men I might meet — Tom with the spiky beard that might rub

                        a rash on my face when we kiss. Glenn who rides a motorcycle.

You embrace your son and it looks like a parent holding birthday wishes close to the boy.

No change can render that image unforgettable and for a moment again I am yours.

Image by C. Praetorius Internet Archive Book Images – https://www.flickr.com/photos/internetarchivebookimages/14782871155/Source book page: https://archive.org/stream/womenofallnation04joyc/womenofallnation04joyc#page/n70/mode/1up, No restrictions, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=43935855

War Story

Here is the book

with torn pages.

Only half remains

to be deciphered.

And here is the house

with burnt rooms,

and a few fading photos

scattered across the floor.

And here, here — Forgive me

but these are my bones.

This is the face I was using.

Wrap them all tenderly.

Sing of me as you sleep.

THE BUSBOY

(Juan Romero, 1951-2018)

Fifty years gone, I still can’t sleep.

When I took up that platter

of sandwiches to his room,

the Senator greeted me,

thanked me, shook my hand.

I felt like an American that night.

Came to this country just

a boy, ten years earlier,

dust of the Sonora still

hot between my toes.

That was my first job, scarce

out of high school.

I’ll never forget how kind

he was, how like a friend.

Bobby.

Twenty-four hours later,

I knelt there, cradling his head

on the cold kitchen floor

while his blood and brains spilled out.

I couldn’t wash my hands for days.

Image by Hal Jespersen (User:Hlj) at en.wikipedia [Public domain]