I
Night and outside
the hoops of
porch lights,
beyond the lawn,
my mother stands
willing her
spine to grow
like a trunk up
towards the yellow
moonless sky. | |
II
She looks over
her sink to a valley
of planted trees
all odd-leafed and exotic
but from her sink
smooth and even,
lush as a storybook terrain
emerald and misting.
"I think of your children,"
she says, "and of where they will live."
In her hand she cradles and turns
the teacup with
a re-glued handle;
I broke it as a child.
"Strange," she says,
"That we kept this." |
III
In the flash of her
fiftieth year, my mother
paints her car by hand:
purple irises all over it,
as if they could grow
in a soil of rubber
and steel. "Well,"
she says, "I always
liked them."
My father
sees it and
leaves her.
| |
IV
Leaves, of which
there are many
without my father
and that leaf blower,
he wore on his back
like a nomad's roaring
sack. Now the wind
breathes them-- maple,
poplar, the neighbor's
elm-- into drifts
by my mother's steps,
swirls them into a
coil by the garage.
Three seasons and
they decompose down
to their delicate
golden veins.
|
Lisa Ortiz
| | Revenge
I dreamed
a host of stellar jays
descended
and stole our stereo.
A band of squirrels
went bad, terrorized
a yard of toddlers.
Raccoons went on a rampage,
slashing tires and
ringing door bells.
They held meetings,
tore up our deeds.
Rats opened, unabashed,
refrigerator doors.
Spiders refused
any more squashing.
We left our homes,
and lived in the parks
collecting walnuts
and scolding cats. |
| | While You Were Out
Afternoon,
the sun and I
danced
on your porch.
We hung silken
streamers and swung
yellow and naked
from your
camellia.
We chased your cat.
We rubbed our noses
on your window panes,
stared into your
darkened halls and
saw your television
holding
its breath.
|
Seasons
I
Night and outside
the hoops of
porch lights,
beyond the lawn,
my mother stands
willing her
spine to grow
like a trunk up
towards the yellow
moonless sky. | |
II
She looks over
her sink to a valley
of planted trees
all odd-leafed and exotic
but from her sink
smooth and even,
lush as a storybook terrain
emerald and misting.
"I think of your children,"
she says, "and of where they will live."
In her hand she cradles and turns
the teacup with
a re-glued handle;
I broke it as a child.
"Strange," she says,
"That we kept this." |
III
In the flash of her
fiftieth year, my mother
paints her car by hand:
purple irises all over it,
as if they could grow
in a soil of rubber
and steel. "Well,"
she says, "I always
liked them."
My father
sees it and
leaves her.
| |
IV
Leaves, of which
there are many
without my father
and that leaf blower,
he wore on his back
like a nomad's roaring
sack. Now the wind
breathes them-- maple,
poplar, the neighbor's
elm-- into drifts
by my mother's steps,
swirls them into a
coil by the garage.
Three seasons and
they decompose down
to their delicate
golden veins.
|
