|
Delphinium Dancing
a shake of moussed mane
and the bright blue baubles
dangling from her ears
dip bob jingle.
"aren't they cute? cute?"
her orange lips grin the answer
as far off humans gouge the earth
digging melting smelting
molding metal
weighing mixing pressing
stamping plastic
to earn make ship sell buy
burying blue of sky
shimmer of sea
twinkle of light
for baubles that dangle briefly
that dangle like -
there! in the meadow!
delphinium dancing in wind.
Uncle Jesse's Giggles
You entered my toddler's world
we giggled at cartoons
("That Bugs! Ain't he something?" you said)
at the clink of pennies
in a toy bank shaped like a cow
In first grade I was afraid:
a man five times my size
should draw me into his world
not follow me into mine
not giggle at my cartoons
or rattle a toy bank in my ears
In third grade I watched
you watch your cartoons
("Yes, Bugs Bunny sure is something," I said)
listened patiently to clattering coins
in your moo-cow bank
as the joy of having a playmate
cleared the fog from your hazel eyes.
In fourth grade, to celebrate your birthday,
I giggled at your cartoons
("That bugs," I said. "Isn't he something?")
gave you a wind-up toy
"Not for a full-grown man," Gram said
snatching the gift from your outstretched hands
and stealing your smile.
It fifth grade I determined to free your mind
held hostage by speech
"Cows eat grass, Uncle Jesse. Beef comes from cows.
Can you say 'beef'?"
I held my breath, your hand,
awaiting the miracle of thoughts unleashed.
"Moo cow!" you laughed,
giggles falling like tears
from your broken mind.
As a teen I dropped quarters
into your wrinkled hand
turned from the face that sagged with longing
for a space in my world,
for your long-lost playmate
to giggle over cartoons
to play with a bank
as if it were a toy.
As an adult I sometimes envied
your simplified mind
watched your cartoons
(Yes, Uncle Jesse. That Bugs. . .),
smiled at the rattle of coins
in your moo-cow bank
defied Gram's rule and
swept the haze from your aging eyes
by grasping your outstretched hand
and presenting you with a toy.
The Warning
As a young woman wandering
through Mexico
I marveled at the viejitas wilting on stony
sidewalks,
watered their parched faces
lined with furrows decades deep,
with the tears pulled from my eyes
nourished them with precious pesos
plucked from my pockets.
I wondered at women, plump as oranges
in their child-bearing years
fallen from the sheltering arms of
family
tumbled onto shadowed curbs
stretching withered palms toward
strangers
from the barren nooks of nowhere.
But not from nowhere;
the viejitas are here on the streets
of Mexico
still or again these many decades later.
Looking into the bruised eyes,
sharp and pleading or blurred and vague,
I glimpse my fearsome fate:
Me, bereft, clutching a rebozo,
begging pesos, a bolillo, a bite of bread,
warning plump female passersby
with my whispered pleas for pity, for a peso
as they ripen in the sunny smiles of their men,
pretending not to see that I have fallen,
pretending they could never, ever fall.
Linda Sonna is a free-lance writer, educator, and the author of ten books. Her personal essays and poetry have appeared in a variety of literary and popular publications. She teaches writing workshops online, in Taos, NM, and in San Miguel de Allende. She is a professor of multicultural counseling at Yorkville University. See www.DrSonna.org. She lives and writes in Taos, NM. May, 2004.
Close this screen and the menu will appear. If frames-incompatible, Click Lunarosity