My Old Man

(Another in a series of pieces about my familia.) 

My old man

sitting under the stars -

traffic flow,

siren call,

tv squawk,

fire glow,

streetlight shine,

cigar smoke.

My old papa

preferred the night sky,

flaming scrap wood

in the burn pit

at his feet.

Solitary witness,

solitary thoughts,

wafting out on 

tobacco stream.

Some nights 

while streets coughed

he’d talk -

classroom days

numberless,

kids squirming

and learning,

world of danger

and wonder,

first words and colors,

team play and numbers.

Some nights
under stars 

and memories 

he’d fly again,

hopping freight cars

across desert 

from LA to Yuma,

street muchacho 

with brown skin

dodging railroad cops

with their club justice.

“I ran to familia 

from familia woes,”

he told me.

“Alcohol father, 

gang avenues,

clamorous streets,

wound up hood,

stolen food.”

“At my Tia Rosa’s

there was always

a place for me.

Menudo Sundays,

pan dulce mornings,

shelter from hot sun

and sandpaper wind,

stars burning

in desert night.”

My old man

still sitting under 

the remembered stars,

grown up me

still dreaming

in a plastic chair

beside him,

cool suburban night,

street shine

and fire light

dancing on 

our tired brown faces.

Tia Mary

(One in a series of familia remembrances.)

My Tia Mary was missing

half a brazo.

There was nada

beneath the left elbow

that led to a mano.

But that didn’t keep her

from holding tight 

to a Budweiser

at every familia fiesta,

or shouting “Bulla!”

(my nickname)

at the top of her lungs

across the party.

Even with only

half an arm

she’d give big hugs

and sloppy cheek besos

that smelled of beer

and cigarettes

and pan dulce.

She didn’t need 

that missing forearm

to sit her sobrinos down

in her cocina

and fill us with tacos

and burgers

and crazy cuentos

about our loca familia.

She’d slap the table

with her only hand

and cackle

while revealing

between sips

of cerveza 

all the hidden history,

all the forbidden chisme.

“You almost didn’t happen!

Your papá went to an office party

and got drunker than a skunk!

Someone stuck him in a taxi

and sent him home 

without his pants!

Your Tio Rafael hauled him 

up to the spare bed.

In the morning 

your mamá shouted,

‘I’ll never marry you!’

at his hungover head!

Ha!

You almost didn’t happen!”

Slap slap slap!

on the formica mesa.

My Tia Mary was missing 

half a brazo

but that didn’t keep her

from reaching out

one cigarette smokey afternoon 

to my poetic quietude.

“I always wanted

to be a painter,”

she confided.

“When I see you write

I think…”

“Ay, tia, you could do it!”

I promised her, 

but she laughed,

sin felicidad,

sin esperanza.

“You’re young and dumb, mijo,

pero I’m just

an old mexicana mujer

who didn’t get to choose.”

My Tia Mary was missing 

half a brazo,

there was nothing 

beyond the left elbow

that led to a mano.

But was it there

in that nada

that she kept 

her secret sueños?

There in that brazo

that only she

could see

where she went

to dream

the pinturas

and aventuras

of one hidden woman

and her soltera mano?