The musky, chile flavor of Spanish
Seems simple of sound
But, de repente, estoy enchilada
With the unexpected heat
Of words that never
appeared on a vocabulary test.
Hablo sola en los dos idiomas
The milky sweet scent of my native English
– with its nearly inexplicable vowels –
fills all the corners of my home
from the folds of the curtains to
the creases of clothes in the closet y ni modo I must live with it, living without.
The silky, smooth, liso Spanish
runs comfortably, if not easily,
under my fingertips and over my tongue,
and the seersucker texture of English me sale facil, if not comfortably
over my tongue and under my fingertips.
Asi que, if I must talk to myself, Que sea en los dos idiomas
Para que the day tastes
and suene completo.
the evident passions
beneath your wings
under your hooves
and between your claws.
Familiar forms tacked together,
you belie the dreams
from which you emerge
sweaty and damp
with frightened rage
and joyous wonder.
Colored in shades that shout
Of sun, heat, and sun again
you fade briefly
only to rise again
on the strength of
The bow was shaped in a rush,
But there was time
to cure a bit of sinew for the string,
test the weight against youthful biceps,
and the aim of ancient eyes.
The fletching slightly skewed from hurry,
still she’s flown far, the little unexpected arrow,
and swift like the wind
under the sparrow’s wing.
Though the quick, green bow dried and broke,
Life’s longing lights her path
as it lengthens.
I wrote the title for this about two years ago and have been thinking on it ever since. I like the result, though the alliteration in the last stanza may be too heavy for the rest of the poem. I used Kahlil Gibran’s “On Children” from _The Prophet_ for inspiration. You can find it here, if you’re interested.
P.S. Thanks for all the reads, visits, views and comments! I can’t believe I’m up to 129 follows! ~LD
Though you’ve never been flexible,
I long for your touch every day.
When I reach out,
You warm to my hand
to make words flow
I know I’ve asked too much of you,
And soon you will run dry
Eyes still shut
I awake to the practiced, stolen
tunes of the mockingbird chief
outside my window;
I love his
My sleepy ears enthralled
by his youngliings’ answers:
in tune, if not on key.
A crunch of leaves,
already sun-dried in April,
disguises the crack of a bat
and briefly the rustle
of fifty Moms cheering
in the stands;
I break open soft-boiled eyes
and imagine shadows of children
swinging bats for arms and mitts for hands.
A glance at the clock
reminds me time has changed;
by summer schedule
I’m up early even
without counting the hour I’ve lost,
but I envy my mockingbird
his timeless choir practice
that runs on angles of light
not on the hands of a clock.