Tuesday, June 1, 2010


I am disappointed in my mother tonight. Her narrow nose, pointing down at the dirty Earth beneath her as she sweeps blood from the porch after each storm. Toting the proper papers around in a bag bearing the names of former husbands; (Marcos. Francisco. 1848 she changed her name. 1853 she bought her freedom.) Setting a plate of las papas fritas de la liberté for the neighbor children. Humming over the thunder that shakes the mountains, not hearing the quiet sobs as each time the thunder shuffles away. In the mountains the three sisters distract themselves from her cool song, the oldest by shucking, the middle sister by cooking arepa, the youngest with dolls in corn husk dresses. “How can you shoot women, children?” “Easy. You just don’t lead 'em so much.” Are the neighbors’ mothers hiding their red cheeks behind the mask of Dinah? I'm tired of seeing her ugly face, like dried clay, Adamah, I'll walk until she's behind me. “The dead know only one thing: That it is better to be alive” alie Water the brown back of David’s Son is drank from a bottle. The valleys of her lips are filled and she speaks of Mesopotamia. She is called Mayflower. For what else would I call her when I am no longer welcome?