Basketweave

I am the insatiable wolf
whose hunger you fear
yet whose domain you desire.
Step off the path, my dear
why are your eyes so big?
Have you never felt
the earth with bare feet
have you never smelled
fresh flowers so sweet?
Your mother warned you
to stay away
your grandmother
told her the same
yet here I stand, welcoming
and you come to me.
I am freedom. I am the door
that opens new paths, your small fingers
holding onto the basket till it breaks
like glass. What big ears you have
did you hear the wind in the leaves
or a star shooting across the sky?
What big lips you have? Better
to speak, better to eat
and my, what big teeth, you say
but they’re necessary
to clear the way.

After “Sugar House,” from Lisa Andrews’ The Inside Room.

Lucy Sings the Blues

For Celena. Always magical.

There was an old courthouse where I slept
on a bench beneath the apple trees
that lined the great stone paths
to meet our king
who sat highest in the court
the Judge of Judges
reporting on the sins of men
and the adulterous women.

Freedom of Expression

So I arrive to have my test proctored and I get to the desk in the back of the library where there’s this plump black woman with braided hair in a bun and a bright smile on her face. When she pulls out my test and looks through the paperwork, her eyes light up and she says, “You’re taking Spanish?” “Yes,” I answer (but maybe I should’ve said “sí”), and she spews off a mouthful in español. I flash a nervous grin and admit, “I’m not quite there yet, but maybe if you talk slowly.” I chuckle, and changing the subject she asks, “What do you plan to do with Spanish?” Here I’m faced with a dilemma: honesty or ease? She seems friendly enough, so I opt for honesty, saying, “My boyfriend’s from Spain.” She gets this funny look on her face as she stands up, pointing to the other side of the room. “See that man sitting over there? His boyfriend’s from the same place as my husband, El Salvador. Seems to me like you guys are steeling up our foreign men.”

And what else can I do but laugh and say I agree?

One Hundred Words

Why does the word count start at one? I’m at ten. I must write one hundred words. Almost twenty done. One fifth there. I’m on my way to save the day and here is another ten to bring me closer to the end and what would I do if I could write you the world and what would you do if I gave it to you and what, what, what would be the point if there were no point at all and in every moment, a strand of light became the thread of thought that was woven into a rope that wrapped around us and tied us to something true, to something deeper than me or you. What would I say, what would I spin, what angle would this picture bring when I see you, and you see me, and somewhere something else is free yet we are bound until we’re found and therein you can welcome me and I can take you in and we can sin and sin and sin sin sin. And then happily, untie this rope made of a thousand million strands of light and I could write you the world and give it to you and then, then counted, numbered, turned to stone, we could be immortal all on our own.

Excerpted from Cold White Snow