Tuesday, March 24, 2009

for my great aunt.

There was a man
that she watched on the ’89 Sony
colours saturated like her mind
and he would look at her,
never look away, wink,
and she felt as though
her husband was still alive
still touching her cheek and saying,
“I will always be here,”
same eyes, same smile,
and that sense of disbelief,
a warm home.

She told us there was a boy
coming to get her
that summer,
an Argentinean boy,
young, brown hair, dark eyes,
he would take her to the man
who smiled so kindly
on the nightly news,
and we said, “How will you speak
to him,
tía, how will you speak?”
but she never answered,
except in smiles.

She held my daughter
in her arms and said,
“Her great uncle
will love her so much,”
bright red cheeks,
and we smiled, never understood
when she said, “He’ll bring her
flowers on Sundays,” when she said,
“plastic toys, too.”

I remember the way she sat,
tears in her eyes,
grabbing my wrist,

“Do you see?” she would say,
pointing at the television,
“Do you see how he smiles
at me?”

“He winks,” she said,
“Just for me. Just for me.”

And when later she started grinning
at walls, crying with strangers
grabbing men’s collars and staring,
just staring, I thought of the way
her eyes watered
every weeknight
at six.


I'm really glad I don't actually think I'm a good poet or even a bad poet, because terribly written things like that would make me feel bad about myself. :(

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