Mythology Of Your Nights
You turn on the porch light
in that moment between twilight and dark:
little catch of breath, and your dead grandmother
kidnaps you, 40 freckles on her inner thigh
spilling out like stars snapping open.
Not what you asked for, this haze
of chimera, strange tock-tock of piñon
at her hearth. No, you want to see just-night,
want to hear Esquibel’s junk-dog complain
about poor food, no food, his cursed
coyote life chained to a light pole.
But you taste your grandmother’s coffee:
bitter grounds mixing with day-old cream,
3 sugar cubes she positions side by side
at the bottom of the cup with crack
of lizard’s tail: When you roll one finger
around its rough rim, poco a poco sweetness
dissolves into heat, and 12 bizcochitos float
from that ancient oven, scent-of-anise falling
from dusky heavens of abuelita’s dough.
Warning: Turn off the porch light o leave
it on. It makes no matter. You sit at the chartreuse
table, sampling constellations and crumbs, scatter
warm clouds onto her kitchen floor, momentito,
she says, then some moon remembers your ransom.
(Tiger’s Eye Poetry Journal and as a Tiger’s Eye broadside, 2004)
