With These Hands
Twin doves, as opening
Spangled in their costume gems,
Full of nails from the crucifixion
And constantly cracking,
Were they words or
Dolls or Chinese fans spread
They’d have the strength of
Undertow drag
And call sailors gentle
To the “profundo” of the sea’s
Seething like my life hereafter.
Singing Down the Motherland
Because I “mujer” am:
A thing of light,
The sensibility of jasmine
Coiled up around the bone
And light the candles
Of a sweet temple of summer reds
Have called out.
And because your name is
The chime sounding from the hollows
Of a supple throat.
Because I press hard
Against the borders of another body
Another life heating its pulse
With the thrashing of time.
Your name—
Become my “guerillera” cry
In a war of milk
And abandoned stars
Quivering like ozone or disembodied lidless eyes
On street corners or city blocks.
And because I call you up
Summoned to lift the lid of this box
And scatter caution like the stones
Of seeds to the corners of the wind
Or this mouth made of heat,
Hot as chile pepper or tequila gold
And you come, called back
Into these arms,
Into this new country of frenzy
And dervish turned away
Yet dancing hot.
And you make beautiful.
Or I do, it doesn’t matter now,
After the call, or ache, or
Serpent trampled under the
Stepping feet.
The torn open spaces of my brown skin,
Brown life opened like Mexico.
Like an un-panned river of solar
Gems spread over the “patria”
Lost to narcos and jewel thieves.
The woman gone “loca,” this woman
Split in two by a dividing river
Or green ribbon filled with turtles
And ancient clay.
This “mujer” who loves in spite of
Herself—at the risk of so much.
The Subtle Fruit
It takes shape in the shade
Like new chutes
And an adolescent girl standing
Like an untouched instrument
In a dark room.
This is living in the hyphen—
Hybrid—Mexican American
Concoction of course hair and
Deep black eyes at the ready.
And I become her again after
Years of John and months of James
When the new strings are tuned
And the air is as quiet as Chiapas.
When anticipation is nearly ants
Making dirt bloom in the dark,
Between the loaves of my breasts—
Fresh as the Sunday morning in a stranger’s eyes.
I think of “mama” calling old fashioned love
“entrega” today, walking aisles
By myself at the HEB,
And wonder if I can like that—
The vaginal fruit sleeping in the
Cool silk of the mister,
The light, the shade
And this urging
alone.
Porque Soy
Porque soy tonta
I keep coming back like a moth to its fire
And nearly lost my “alas” in the tussle
Nearly gave my little-girl-lost face to the light
But only singed, drunk on heat, crazy loca
Punch drunk and shutter blind…for a little while
Quema quemar quemazon Corazon
You little flying fool, dizzy from the
Daylight stuck on the tip of the wick…for a little while
Then apologies, roses or dinner, not in front of the
Kids…”whats left of them,” I say.
And they know…growing fearsome in the dark,
Heavy, shapeless, porque soy tonta, crazy loca,
Tilting round the light…my shadow cast hard
Against the heavy wall.
2ndChance
My father wanted a boy, sturdy, tall
Clay hands like his, ripped and rough,
Color of earth under Texas sky, he’d
Say the blues and bluer here,
But I arrived instead, out of the blue,
Too much, too soon, too loud,
And rooms were repainted
A medicine pink to accommodate
The growing colony of dolls
That looked nothing like the girls of
The neighborhood, looked nothing like me,
Barely human, angelic, blonde amazons
With charge cards and a medicine colored convertible.
In time the hopes of fishing trips and baseball
Games turned to the exquisite anguish of things
To come: quinces and crises.
What a girl wants or what
Shes thought in want of, never been asked
No matter how many backyard homeruns ,
How many tools handed to the old man,
Hips cocked and sinking deeper down
Into the white pickup, transmission first,
His munequita shape shifting in the shade.
Question
Hows it going to be this time?
Always becoming as you are,
As I,
With a hint of the old country in
And a dash of the new,
The scent of 100 summers
On the skin. shinning still.
Where do you go when the
Lights go out and the writing
Is done, poem?
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