Fetching Water
The house in Los Jardines where my birth-father lived with his third wife
and my half-brother and sister, had a patio, the patio a tile floor,
the floor a cedar rocker and a window, the rocker by the window,
Keiter in plain sight. My eyes, lost ships at sea. I was ten.
Raindrops thrashed metal roofs and unpaved roads. When it clears,
Keiter’s fingers wrap around empty gallons of water
her tiny feet slated for the watering hole.
On her return, I see the load, practically an anchor
against her frame; I see drops of sweat slide down her face:
from forehead, to nose, to cheek, then lips.
She rests a moment, as if conscious of her distant future:
a husband, two kids, and many more bone-tired days like these.
And He Will Play Baseball
bat lefty like Big Papi—
the bat: an extension of his arm,
a coming together of white ash,
rubber, fabric, and stitched cowhide.
I know this because he grips the ball tight,
searches for ground, breath meeting my gaze
then lets it drop from his fingers
like the dull roar of a first I love you.
I lower him headfirst; back slightly hollowing
arms extending forward—as if diving—
while he retrieves the ball. Barehanded.
Returning him to my shoulders,
hand supporting his bottom, the other his waist,
the ball, the raised corners of his mouth,
the squinting of the eyes, show me
this too is fatherhood;
this too will teach him
how to love a man.
Tia Licha’s House
What I remember? At four years of age
Tía Licha told me to stop—
white sheets, yellow stains.
At twelve, opening iron gates, hand in hand
Tía, rubbing index finger on my palm
saying, “This is how you get a girl to sleep with you.”
Tía’s house invokes memories of cherry scents,
of extreme heat, mosquito nets, outdoor latrines,
nighttime bed pans, and of containers filled with cutting water.
Who says that something dirty can’t be beautiful?
Who says dirty thoughts can’t be innocent?
The pipes run water. Electricity lasts
twenty hours or more. She has a kitten now,
and most days there’s food. Enough for two.
Homerun Plate a la Joshua
In praise of Joshua Gibson
When Mami prepares this meal for you,
these simmered red kidney beans
with white rice y con concón and places
the crusty, tasty film from the bottom del caldero
onto your plate; when she dips and redips
the spoon into the thick creamy liquid to color
and flavor each bite, the nutty caramel
richness and your lips, still islands apart;
when she pierces the stuffed turkey thigh with her fork
and the juices run clear, not pink and she holds
the thickest portion of meat steady with her hands,
cuts through the joints, pulls legs from the carcass,
and says, “Uncle Josh was a mule of a man—
dark meat and intense,” she means eat
your veggies too, before you can go out
and play baseball with your friends.
