LatinosUSA

Wadded Tissues

Her old jacket hangs on the hook–
smelling of autumn walks—

and something stays my hand
from throwing it on the donation pile.

She would climb into it, tug the sleeves,
ready to walk stiff as a toy locomotive

out onto the broken sidewalk littered
with maple and oak leaves.

So I shrug it on–it’s a bit short for me–
but she’s with me now, wrapping me,

and I push my hands into the pockets
where I find one stuffed tissue

always handy. How she clenched
that Kleenex ball in her fist when my father

yelled at her as if words were rocks.
Another soggy wad when I hurt her feelings.

The tissue goes back into the fleecy pocket,
the jacket into my suitcase to scent my things.

~~

The History of Corruption

When Red left home with her basket brimming
her mind bloomed with wildflowers
and her tongue with Granny’s cream tea.
The warm cloak swaddled her in innocence,
though its color invited a different story.

What did Red’s mind say as the wolf stepped
from behind the reluctant tree?
Did her heart shudder or shimmer?
She surely startled, but instead of reading
from the outside, imagine Red’s interiority.

Was the wolf an invisible abyss counting
on a myopia caused by the swathing?
It could have been that Red experienced
all these reactions at once, making it difficult
to remember Granny in that chaos of the soul.

When Red plunged into the forest used to it all,
the wolf waited for her, stepped from the tree,
and it didn’t really matter what he said to her.
Study the images. The girl still in the folds
of innocence, the wolf standing sly on two feet.

~~

My Life

All those years ago
we wrote essay
answers:
how we would differ
from our parents,
so uptight yelling
dinner at 5:45 every night,
what we could bring to
how we would handle,
and we had no idea.
Looking ahead,
not to the side
or behind
into onesies
scented by our home.
I changed first him,
and three years later her,
while still at the airport.
The babies grew like
snowballs on a slope.
We added dogs
and cats, a rat
who slept under my hair.
We all tumbled
down the hill, adding
twigs and leaves,
some dirt for the mud.
We made lots of mud
with jobs replacing jobs,
a business,
a couch and farmhouse,
table with chairs,
Grandma’s sewing
tools sent by my father,
photo albums taking
over two shelves
from books.
It’s been years
Now.
Weighted by all this,
we struggle
to climb,
letting the slush
and junk melt
in a stream
behind us,
expecting
the nuggets
of who we are
to appear
at any moment.
So we dig
in the mud,
planting seeds
of ourselves.