Unravel 


Back home, back where we came from originally, the word for “trouble” has both a masculine and feminine form. The literal translation would probably be “unravel”, but trouble is what it means. These days the masculine is for big problems, and the feminine for smaller ones. Back then it was to distinguish between the troubles of men, and those of women.  That spring day when my Grandmother cried out the masculine form and smashed a dish, then threw another and began to cry; we knew, my sisters and I, that our Father would not be returning from the war. 

Greenpoint


On the bus to New York she made a dozen lists, and changed each one a dozen times. On the plane to New York he made dozen lists, and changed each one a dozen times. Always first on her list was a knife. A good sharp knife and she'd use it too if that bastard (or anyone else) came after her. Always first on his list was a knife. A good sharp knife, that's the first thing you need in a kitchen his grandmother had taught him. Overhead was her duffel. The few clothes she could grab, and of course her iguanas Peaches and Herb. Overhead was his duffel. The few clothes he owned worth taking, and of course his drawings and a books. Dozing she thought of the husband she left, how he hit her one time too many. She could still picture him, drunk, breathing heavy, belt doubled in his hand. She ran. Dozing he thought of his grandmother, all she taught him, the heart break of her death. He could still picture her, with her short orange hair, smoking a little home made cigar, and walking her old iguana Judas on his leash. He couldn't stay. Off the bus from Texas she found a cheap Brooklyn rent. Off the plane from Ecuador he found a cheap Brooklyn rent. She cut her hair short, to look like a city girl, dyed it woodpecker red. He cut off his long braid, to look like an American, saved it wrapped in tissue. She took what work she could, wouldn't file for aid. He took what work he could, visa long expired. Hot summer night. She's on the fire escape, smoking what she rolled, hunting knife, cutting up bananas for Herbie in her lap. Hot summer night. He's on the fire escape, lemon soda, chef's knife, cutting up plantains to fry for dinner.  Knives in hand their eyes meet. She smiles, then smiles again.  He seems nice.  “My Christ,” he whispers, "what a beautiful woman...  She reminds me of someone.”

about the light 


something about the light
that only happens in Paris.
photo today’s front page

neighborhood street scene
two women kissing,
their marriage now confirmed.

they are young, they are French 
their attire non-descript,
but for simple matching veils. 

background crowded, 
faces seem unchanged
generations from VE day. 

wet and dense the air
saturated colors shimmer.
magic still, the light of Paris.  





Station to Station


On the sidewalk,
by the pay-phone,
someone dropped 
a thousand peso 
Golden Garcia
and I used it to call you.

That must have been
enough.
Connecting me
and Mexico City
with you
and Oklahoma City.

But there was only
your machine.
You visit your Mother
on Sundays,
since she got sick.
I felt so foolish
not remembering.

Suddenly unsure 
of what to say.
I didn’t leave
a message.