poems

The Longest Day

The night watchman sounds
his shrill whistle like a screech owl,
motorcycle buzzing through the midnight
streets, chaos of dogs barking following
him every night. But this night comes late,
after the earth turned a little longer
in the face of sun, and humans danced
pagan dances with flower garlands, or probably
just barbequed steaks out in the yard.
And now I listen to the melancholic
calling of the owl watchman, out looking
for thiefs and crooked drunks, and I wish
the sun could have lasted a little longer
on the longest day.

June 22, 2009


Foreign

“Hello, what’s up baby? Come with
me, lady, mamacita” always
with the same foolish broken
accent, burlon, making fun
of me. The face that goes with it
always seems the same, with greased
back hair and too much gel, always
the same because I don’t want to look.
I cringe every time I hear it, because I will
always be the white lady, gringa,
tourist, blonde. Even when they see
me get in my car with my grocery
bags, diapers, laundry detergent, dish
soap, they don’t get it and I am always
just as faceless and foreign.

June 24, 2009


Riding Smoothly

Dark eyes barely reach the window
rolled down – he’s about 6, black hair
looks like a dead dog perched on his head,
and the filthy mop he carries looks worse,
rotten, rigormortis, stiff with dirt and grease.
He wants to wash our windshield. We’re not
sure what effect black mop will have
on shiny red Jetta, so we beg him off
and shovel as many pesos as we can into his little
hands before the light turns green. I see
his mother in the next lane over, gray apron
and grubby dust mask trying to keep some
exhaust out of her nose, eyeing me. I turn
and eye my son, buckled tightly into his car seat,
clean and riding smoothly in shiny red Jetta.

June 28, 2009