Poems for the baby

Cowboys

There you go again, pursing
your lips and clucking at a horse,
even though I’m running, carrying
you tightly on my hip, dodging
fat raindrops on the way home.
What kind of place do we live,
where men sit on horses in the middle
of the street, in the rain, or just casually
ride by, hats pulled low, hooves
clopping on the asphalt? When did I
pick this town? Cowboys look normal
to your new eyes and you squeal
thrilled at the sheep scattered
in the neighbor’s yard, jaunting loose
from the corral, and you point
shrieking with happiness
at the heavy tail-flicking trod of cows
down the main street. This town
picked you, it seems, hand to ear
waiting for your glee and applause
for the fine vaquero western show
playing just for you.

July 2, 2009


Miracles

Nothing new happened today,
like most days, except maybe
that you grew a millimeter,
seemed bigger, taller, more boy
and less baby. And wouldn’t
eat anything all day except
tomatoes at 6 p.m. plucked
from between onion slices
and toasted almonds in the salad.
And a cookie to top it off.
Nothing new, except maybe
saying “uno” for how old
you are, balancing along
the very edge of the sidewalk
without falling, and climbing
on giant fluorite balls taller
than you and sliding off in your private
playground of magical things, your
obsidian jaguar horse and your own
personal Quetzalcoatl, fangs bared,
feathers spread out around you.
Nothing new, just the usual daily
miracles made mundane, like not
seeing angels as angels because they’re
always right there, feathers common,
just like Quetzalcoatl.

July 3, 2009