Guanajuato
In the shade of a doorway,
wearing too much make-up
to cover the lines worn on her face
she stands in gold sequined shoes
that match her peroxide hair.
Eyes closed and arms
wrapped around her purse,
she waits for a bus to take her downtown.
The shade, the make-up
the gold shoes, the hair
the small corners of her mouth
turned down.
Intersection
From my seat on the bus
I watch a woman through the window
kneeling on the coarse blades of grass
to the hymn of city buses,
and the blaring horns of VW bugs.
She weaves a long indigo shawl
over and around the small sun-baked baby.
Her hair, like rope tied into itself,
surrounds her head in a braided crown.
My finders on the glass,
for one moment,
I keep the space she left behind.
A Conversation in Spanish
Sitting in Queréaro's Burger King
Virginia and I share a Mexican Whopper.
Not because we miss American food,
but because I wanted to know
if it would be different.
She wonders what it must be like,
to hear Spanish and not understand,
the shape of the words.
I close my eyes and think back,
try to remember sitting at the table
with my parents and grandparents.
I tell her it's like water,
a stream flowing over rocks,
music in another room
muffled by the walls.
And you know, I had almost forgotten. |