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Staff
Mehra Gharibian – Editor-in-Chief
Sam Jeffrey – Prose Editor
Uzma Amin – Prose Editor
Kamin Kahrizi – Poetry Editor Marisa Kallenberger – Poetry Editor / Managing Editor
Lekha Jandhyala – Visual Arts Editor / Marketing & Design
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Dear Reader, This fall issue will conclude the year and the first series of publications for the Looseleaf Tea, and as we grow and develop our mission becomes more and more relevant. Today, you set aside your time to take part in the cultural experiences of an array of individuals. We like to think this journal is a home for their message and a platform for their voices. With this Fall issue, the idea of voices becomes all the more prevalent. The many talented artists displayed come from extremely different backgrounds, but they all have something intangible in common. Their voices are unforgettable. We have found ourselves again honored at the opportunity to give rise to diverse and cultural voices, and we hope that you enjoy the work contained in the following pages as much as we did. Thank you for joining us. Mehra Gharibian Editor-in-Chief The Looseleaf Tea
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Table of Contents Staff.............................................3 Editor’s Note.....................................4 Scherezade Siobhan, Two Poems.....................6 Janet Barry, Of the Buddha: I–Gold, II–Saffron....8 Mira Desai, Footprints in the Sand...............11 Uche Ogbuji, Okobi and the Crying... ............19 Carl Palmer, Screwdriver Mathematics.............22 Bill Vernon, In the Basement.....................23 Anonymous, Immigrant Family, 1970s...............27 Robert Stout, Hostages...........................35 Darren Demaree, Two Poems........................39 Nikoletta Nousiopoulos, martyr...................41 Padma Prasad, All Except One.....................42 Martin Willitts, Jr., Okitsu,,,,,,,,...,,,,,,,,,,55 Leslie Aguilar, Four Poems.......................57
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SCHEREZADE SIOBHAN
After the Arab Spring
Memory is a blind archaeologist –
within myself, I have unfolded frequently
into the divertimento of winter elegies —: sui generis,
my inheritance. in Syria, when the mouths of guns were
cleansed by blood not oil, I once again felt that life is
a speechless immigrant. Now I have learned
to recite silences like a mantra on opium.
When your absence hunts me, my ribs untangle
like ribbons; slowly the equinox treads into clocks,
the scarlet letter in my veins aches to be re-written
as blank verse. I would like to be
incomplete: an anthology of half-faded scars.
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SCHEREZADE SIOBHAN I write to You as the Ghost of Borges I want to be the attar of roses you press into
the crisp folds of your favorite book. I want to go
to sleep pressed deep into the nightingale lyric of
the poems you love the most. Your breath is
a diadem of nimbus; a coronal, You are
the archangel of rootless tempo:
the taut spire of your limbs;
the svelte piazza of your jawbone;
the latticed algebra of your fingers
summed with mine — your body has the era of Indus
soldered into its ivory reign. & my heart; a cul de lampe
— here, dangle your tousled blues; your scarred jazz
I see you as a canvas of Moroccan blue
that daubs the windows of Ithaca, the brass tint
of faded turmeric anointing ore to God.
When you leave I find you everywhere —:
in the madrigal of anastasia lilies;
in the henna dusted tresses of twilight
spread over sleepy highways, that taper into a trail of dust;
in the shadows that junipers tattoo over chiming brooks;
in the clairvoyant racket of ravens promising a sylvan
vagabond’s homecoming — & your smile leaves
footprints on the surface of my blood like a snow leopard’s
majestic paw marks in the cliffs of hind kush. You’re the seismic
underbelly smoldering. You’re the continental shift.
You’re the new cartography of desire.
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JANET BARRY Of the Buddha I Gold
at the temple of the Big Wild Goose, built 652 AD
stone rises stone above stone,
black dragons, incense, bright red
taper candles burn among relics,
sutras, statues of marble and bronze
and in the garden, a golden Buddha,
seated, golden lotus, hands
cradling a golden world,
and in the garden, birds
clustered in delicate bamboo cages, singers
among the scent of jasmine, orchids,
moss thick on graceful rooflines,
trailing vines, golden tones that flutter
in the breeze
weave across the Buddha's gentle face,
gentle smile, until, promptly at 4pm,
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II Saffron
at the Drum and Bell Tower, built 1384 AD
Outside the restaurant,
a man has a live swallow on a string,
its wings splayed and fluttering in the dust.
Inside, a group of monks arrive, saffron robes,
bared arms, shaved heads. They sit silently, pass food
with gentle gestures. For a time
we and they are all occupied with popping sweet dumplings
into our mouths and looking, looking, glances skitting
between the tables, courtesy struggling
with amazement at our proximity, our distance.
Then, a shatter of loud laughter.
“Shanghaiese” our guide says, referring
to the table of noisy Chinese tourists who point
and giggle at the monks, “So rude. They are saying
which one they think would be best in bed”
Outside, children fly kites into the dusk, paper birds
clinging to plump young hands. I buy a souvenir.
A beggar sleeps, cradled in the dumpster.
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MIRA DESAI Footprints in the Sand
Amu Amma. That’s what the kids call me. When they’re not
calling me that crusty old woman, that is. Anyway, Amu’s
easier on the ear than Amelie *amma*, don’t you think?
Amelie Visalakshi Acchi, Gauri Chettiar. Once a Bostonian,
now matriarch of all I survey. For decades now I’ve watched
over the conduct of this household from my carved chair in
this sunlit central courtyard. The despot, the controller,
that’s what my sons tease me, but never to my face, of
course. There is a decorum, a protocol that is called for
in this hundred year-old Chettinad home. These old
arthritic bones have to count for *something*--why are you
surprised? See these red and green carved Burma teak-and-
stone columns? They have witnessed strange things over the
ages, many secrets hushed away, many comings and goings,
with my wedding they witnessed the gradual localization of
this *vilayati*, this foreigner, and I’m probably more
Indian than you are, now.
See that six-year old in plaits, playing hopscotch? That
fair one? That’s my granddaughter, Radha-- Radhika . Smart
kid. Spunkier than the rest. She’s the one most like me.
Willful, short of temper and quick tongued, she always gets
her way, or keeps pushing at walls till she does.
But I can see what she’s up to. I was like that, too. My
way or the highway!
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So how did I get here, you’re asking? My hearing and mind
is as sharp as ever. I met Thiagarajan in London. I was on
a Fulbright scholarship-- dissecting Greek classics.
Thiagarajan, of course, was up there for his finance
masters. A numbers man, like a good Chettiar. The story of
our courtship would read like a Baedeker’s guide to England
and Wales. To cut a long story short, we created history.
And we caused storms.
I still remember that hot afternoon when community leaders
had descended upon the home, not one week after our return,
this was in the sixties, you must remember. “My son will
lead the life he wants!” my aristocratic father-in-law had
thundered in the silence of the grand reception room, the
hall reserved for outsiders.
“She was born Amelie, she’ll stay Amelie- absolutely no
changing of names in this house! And no purification
ceremonies either. Utter nonsense!”
Parvati amma, my mother-in-law had pursed her lips and
stiffened. Perhaps that’s when the battle-lines had been
drawn.
The mansion’s mirror-finish walls and *athungudi* tiles had
echoed with this temper display. The many carved Gods –
Ganesha, Kartikeya, Krishna- who ruled this household, must
have been pleased at his stand. That group of somber
community elders who’d stepped in unbidden to proffer their
advice based on their understanding of the scriptures, had
thought it prudent to retreat, to opt for a path more
diplomatic. Yes, my father-in-law did own vast land
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holdings around this town.
A Boston Brahmin. That’s what I was. Remember the between-
war years? No, you’re too young for that. Anyway, the
1940’s were a time of hard work and frugality. No matter
what your name was, or who your granddad was-- I was a
child then, but I remember.
Never before had I been so brash, never before had I
bragged about my Mayflower ancestors. “From one of the
oldest families in America, her family fought alongside
George Washington” Thiagarajan had spoken up, after
clearing his throat and asking for permission. “The
original, the one whom Washington DC is named after?” he’d
added.
“Yes, yes, of course, she’s highly qualified, and from a
family of repute, she’ll learn our ways…,” an elder had
nodded, after a long gulp of coffee.
And I’d learnt. How I’d learned. How to sit cross-legged on
the ground How to use your hands to eat, partake of a
gourmet meal off a banana leaf, and not make a mess. The
different styles of that style statement, the saree, how to
drape it to perfection, and keep it from slipping off. The
do’s and don’ts of propriety, South Indian style. In time,
I learned the language. Its cadences and lilt. But the
invisible shorthand of taboos, obligations and expectations
has remained a mystery to this day.
But most important of all, I’d never learned the mindset.
Maybe not completely.
Did I feel welcome? It took a while to be accepted, to be
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counted amongst family members. And that incident with
Jayalakshmi--but that happened much later. But yes, in time
I learned to be a part of that intricate family jumble of
first and second cousins, siblings, distant and unlabeled
relatives who co-existed more or less peacefully under this
enormous roof. Yes, mostly peaceful, despite the
interfamily cross-connects, cousins marrying, nieces
marrying maternal uncles, and such like—you think I wasn’t
shocked about that too?
Our wedding was quite an event! Relatives from all corners
of the world descended upon the family home. Swishing
silks, antique jewelry- strings of enormous gems and the
best *basra* pearls set in solid gold—all a princess’s
envy—all these were brought out from large chests.
Marigold-jasmine garlands decked the house, music played,
and to the witness of my parents, my best friend Sarah
Graham, and cousin JoAnn-- all of them reddening and
shrinking with the summer heat—I’d been welcomed into my
new family.
So was it “Roses, roses all the way?” Did Parvati amma’s
predictions about the white menace attracting drought and
pestilence come true? Wait!
For a while, Thiagarajan took up a Citibank job and we
moved from country to country. I was the one who insisted
we return home every vacation. I’d try to blend right in,
working with all the other womenfolk, helping supervise the
servants with the cooking every morning, assist with making
enormous quantities of pickle and papadum. We’d prepare
turmeric and ginger powder-- aromatic spices that we’d set
out to dry in the back courtyard. The kitchen and store
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rooms were clustered around the second courtyard, and the
area would look quite festive with red chillies and sliced
mango spread out to dry on clean cotton sheets. Dry heat
would scorch the lands outside—but our lands were well
irrigated, thanks to a system of stone storage tanks and
water channels that an ancient had put in place. Past the
thick stone walls of the mansion, under the sloping
mangalore- tiled roof, we’d be cool and safe.
Parvati amma would give me only the non-critical,
“outsider” tasks. Jayalakshmi, Thiagrajan’s youngest
sister—she’d often take my side and try whittle away at her
mother’s iron resolve, try and soften her up. One evening
Jayalakshmi ran in screaming from the back garden where
she’d been gathering flowers for the evening prayers. A
snake mark on her arm sent the family in a panicked tizzy.
But when I saw the creature that the servants had battered—
it was harmless, a garden snake. I’d seen so many of these
in the zoo back home.
The head servant had immediately been dispatched to fetch
the *Vaidyacharya*, the ayurveda expert. But I’d not
waited-- I’d put my mouth to the wound, and spit out the
blood with much show. After this, Parvati Amma had turned
into my staunchest supporter. “We must change with the
times, so the wise proclaim,” she’d say.
Pujas, story telling sessions with the elder women of the
house, we’d spend hours spent poring over old albums and
valuables—Burmese jade, Venezuelan pearls, ivory embedded
toothcombs and elegant fans-each piece with its own tale.
And always there’s be a tale about Uncle Somasundaram or
Chidambaram, and how he came by this particular treasure.
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Neither the children nor we elders would tire of listening
to these stories over and over again.
Yes, children-didn’t I tell you?-- for by now there were
two, Ravindran and Shyamasundaram. They’d revel in the
yearly shift between upstate New York and our special part
of the world, like true Chettiars, masters of both their
domains. Their classmates went to summer camp, to Colorado
or the Great Lakes, the boys came home and learnt numbers.
Thiagarajan was making his way up the ladder, sitting in on
compliance committees across continents, taking on
responsibilities and longer hours.
Money? Did we have enough? Not enough for an estate in the
Hamptons, but rich enough.
Burnt out. That’s what they called it. One bright autumn
evening, he returned from work earlier than usual,
completely drained. “Let’s go home…” he said, after
attending to two cups of filter coffee. He’d grown tired of
the constant see-saws of the market. And government
policies changing without an inkling. This once he’d been
lucky, the Yen had collapsed but he’d been able to stop his
bank’s earnings from evaporating. But he wouldn’t be as
lucky every time, and the thought plagued him.
So here we are. Today I hear my elder son grumbling about
more or less the same things and I wonder how long he’ll
last.
Anyway, that’s a different story.
I was only too happy to return to these rich fields and
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wake up to bird song, the chattering of the peacock and the
parrot. We’d sit for hours under the star-filled sky, in
our own private terrace with its embellishments, stone
etched birds and trees, and in time Thiagarajan began to
heal, show an interest in the family business. The boys?
They adjusted. American International School in Kodaikanal
for term time, the family home for vacations-- it turned
out okay.
How did we manage, specially the transition, and especially
with so many nay-sayers? Weddings, births, and funerals,
and the cycle of time, all these helped. Of course there
were ups and downs—good heavens, this is not a sweet
saccharine story from the movies! Problems too, like the
time the crop failed, there were no rains at all-- all the
storage tanks ran dry that year, animals, humans, everyone
suffered under the scorching sky, and we had to buy water
for the first time ever in the history of this family,
tankers raising dust storms as they crisscrossed the
parched land. Or the time when it rained too much and we
were marooned, thankful for our massive store of grains and
condiments. Yes, certainly a far cry from London and
Boston.
My elder son, Ravindran, always a wizard with numbers, made
it to the IIT and IIM. He lives in Bombay or Mumbai or
whatever they call it these days, but is home every
vacation time, much to his city-bred wife’s displeasure.
Between you and me I think he’ll come back here eventually,
just needs to first make his mark.
Shyamasundaram, my younger son, inherited my love for wide-
open spaces and the burnished feel of teakwood. Organic
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farming. That’s what he chose to do, after a doctorate in
environmental sciences from the University of Michigan.
He’s a wizard with greens--spinach, tomatoes, red pepper,
bell pepper, celery-- our produce is blessed with the
distinct taste of our land, a taste that has found favor
with the most discerning buyers in the world. He’s thinking
of setting up an organic restaurant in Singapore, next.
Ambitious, aren’t they?
Difficult? I should know! So many of the outsiders drop in,
every harvest season, to supervise the crops, ensure that
organic methods of cultivation are followed, they say-- but
between you and me I think they’re here to have a great
vacation. Just the other day someone suggested we offer
home stays, teach the curious our manners and ways.
And those Greek classics? Long forgotten. The Gods and
ancestors have blessed this household.
Must tell Radhika to step indoors—now just what is that
child up to?
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UCHE OGBUJI I.
So what are you saying?
We are all cowards in this village?
A chalk-man of cassava flesh
ignoring the mighty leopard men of Amaraku
laying an iron path through our own yam plots
terrifying us with his blockhead beasts?
Yay! What has become of Amaraku
in these short years I've been away;
where are the stalwarts my father knew?
Now that my father is old and infirm
Can he do anything
but watch
his sons and brothers
allow ghosts
to appropriate
our family land…
What is that noise?
Eh? Take me to this iron path
and while my Okobi blood leaps through my veins
no beast or bastard will cross our land!
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II.
Ah! There comes the pale man's gwon-gwoni nnama.
What racket it makes as it runs along.
But do we not say, oh Amaraku
that the troublesome child at play
is louder by far than the crouching hunter,
that the king never scampers in his own realm?
Come forth you noisy demon:
It is on the Okobi farm you shall stop…
What is that noise?
Ha, look! I haven't even touched the thing
And already it is wailing,
Some diseased elephant sneeze!
The iron beast is crying.
Just wait until Okobi's hand
touches your insolent cheek.
There it cries again.
Here I stand, son of Okobi,
my sharpened matchet in my hand,
on your wood and iron path.
You have insulted Amaraku and now
On the Okobi farm you shall stop!…
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Just wait until Okobi's hand
touches your insolent cheek.
There it cries again.
Here I stand, son of Okobi,
my sharpened matchet in my hand,
on your wood and iron path.
You have insulted Amaraku and now
On the Okobi farm you shall stop!…
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CARL PALMER Screwdriver Mathematics Lying up under the car
on the floor of the garage
I see his little feet arrive,
the shadow of his head
bending down to ask,
“Whattaya want, Dad?”
“Hand me that number two Phillips
on the workbench there, son.”
I watch him switch his weight
from one little foot to the other,
step away, start back, stop,
turn around and then
scamper back to the car.
“Dad, is the Phillips a plus or a minus?”
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BILL VERNON In the Basement I knew it was a bad idea, but Mom signed me up and ordered
me to go. Then Mrs. Cecil kind of pushed me downstairs. "Go
on. The meeting will be down there. Make yourself at home."
All seven boys were back in a corner. They said hi to
me, then turned back to Jacob, who resumed talking,
describing Robin Whitehead, who lived nearby. I delivered a
newspaper to her house too. He put his fingertips on his
upper chest, then held them a few inches out from it and
said, "She's got the biggest ones in my neighborhood."
The others laughed and one said he'd like to see them.
I smiled and let it go at that.
Jacob said, "Did you hear the one about the farmer's
daughter?"
A kid said, "There's a bunch of those jokes."
They all wore a blue uniform with an ugly little
beanie, which would preseumably have to get and wear. I ran
into these kids on my paper route, but they went to the
public school. I went to Catholic school.
Jacob said, "This is about a real dumb farmer who
finds his beautiful daughter naked in the backyard with a
man. The farmer says, 'Hey, what're you doin', thar,' and
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his daughter goes 'Whoop' like she's been goosed, her
titties bounce up and down, and...."
The other boys laughed like what Jacob said was funny.
I crossed my arms on my chest. Farmers went to our church.
Some of my best friends were farmers.
"What's wrong? You know this one?" Jacob stared at me
so the others looked at me too.
I shook my head.
Jacob stepped toward me. "You don't think it's funny?"
I put my hands on my hips. "No. It's dirty and
immoral."
Jacob stepped right up in my face. "You're a Goody Two
Shoes."
The other boys laughed.
I pushed Jacob so he fell back against the furnace
with a loud thunk. Then he ran into me. We grabbed each
other, spun around and fell, slamming into a furnace duct,
which came loose and banged loudly hitting the floor. From
the overhead duct the loose one had been connected to, coal
dust and ashes billowed out onto Jacob and me.
I crawled back off Jacob and stood. Jacob sat up and
brushed off his face. Ashes covered his forehead, eyes and
nose. A little pile was on his lap. I had the stuff all
over my arms and back.
"What's going on?" Footsteps thumped downstairs and
Mr. Cecil appeared, his white socks becoming dark and
sooty. He grabbed Jacob under an armpit and pulled him up.
The dust covered Jacob's eyes and forehead like a Halloween
mask.
The man's face turned as red as his hair. "Look at
this mess." He glared at each of us, then back at his son.
"I've told you a hundred times not to wrestle down here."
"We weren't wrestling." Jacob pointed at me. "I got
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attacked."
"They were fighting," one of the other boys said.
Mr. Cecil looked at me, then pushed his son toward the
stairs. "Rinse off at the sink."
Jacob left, and Mr. Cecil called after him, "Bring the
broom and dust pan over here. And a wet mop. You're going
to clean it up, Mister."
"He started it." One of the other kids pointed at me.
"I don't care who started it." The man turned to me
and his voice softened. "We don't fight in this house,
William. We work together. It's teamwork we want,
understand?"
I nodded.
Dragging a dripping mop in one hand, Jacob reappeared.
His face and hair were wet and his uniform top was gone.
The white tee shirt that had been underneath it was wet as
well. He said, "I didn't do nothing. He knocked me down."
"I don't care. It's over now. I want you two to shake
hands. Go ahead. Shake." He put a hand behind our shoulders
and pulled us toward each other.
Jacob stepped toward me but made a snarly face his
father couldn't see. I crossed my dirty arms over my chest.
"Shake," Mr. Cecil said and Jacob stuck his right hand
out. Mr. Cecil stared at me.
I shook my head.
"You can't stay here, William, unless you shake hands.
I'm sure your parents would understand. Go ahead and
shake."
I shook my head. The man's eyebrows raised.
I said, "I'm sorry," turned around, went right up the
stairs and through the side door, which I closed softly.
It was dark outside. I was supposed to call Dad when
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the meeting was over, but I couldn't go back inside and ask
to use their phone. I started walking. Home wasn't that far
away. I remembered the joke and what my mother had said
just a day ago: To always treat "females" the way I'd like
my sister and mother to be treated. With respect. So I was
right. Jacob was disrespectful. Also, immoral. If I'd
laughed at his joke, I'd have to confess it. When I
explained, my parents would understand why I was kicked out
of the first Cub Scout meeting I went to.
The next afternoon Mrs. Cecil caught me delivering
their newspaper and said, "That won't be necessary. We are
cancelling our subscription right now." She slammed the
door.
I hopped on my bike and pedaled off to Robin
Whitehead's house. I'd delivered Sunday, Monday and
Tuesday's newspapers already this week to the Cecils. They
owed me 55 cents. I decided to ask for it when I collected
as usual on Saturday.
But I never did go back to that house, and for weeks I
tried to think up a good punch line for that farmer's
daughter joke.
36
ROBERT STOUT Hostages Aurora Serrano traces her forefinger along the frame
of a photograph of her four children and repeats “rehenes,
rehenes somos todos” (“hostages, we’re all hostages”). A
strong, sturdy retired office worker, recently widowed,
with a wide-cheekboned face and deep-set dark eyes, she
describes life in semi-rural Mexico that on the surface
seems traditional, compatible, but remains tightly under
the control of economic and political forces that permit
only acceptance of the way things are.
Serrano lives on the outskirts of the city of Oaxaca
in the southern part of the country. The state of Oaxaca
leads the nation in the assassinations and disappearances
of journalists, human rights advocates and
environmentalists. Billions of pesos vanish every year from
the state treasury but nearly 70 percent of the population
lives in poverty.
Yet there is laughter. Festivals with fireworks attract
crowds of thousands. Grammar-age children help their
parents on farms, in stores, in non-licensed businesses.
Teenagers marry and have children; widows trundle for hours
to worship at the shrines of patron saints; neighbors help
each other digging drainage ditches, re-wiring houses,
repairing cars. People born into poverty who expect to die
in poverty accept the fact that they’re jodidos—screwed—and
live as best they can.
Control of communal life in Serrano’s words is
“prevalent but invisible.” It is similar, she claims, to
that of ranch animals that are free to graze as they
please, procreate as they please, deal with heat, cold, the
37
frivolity of their young as long as they don’t turn against
their keepers. Those holding the majority of residents
hostage—the political-entrepreneurial-religious hierarchy—
manipulate the country’s finances, dictate labor conditions
and control the media.
“Many farm animals are quite content,” Serrano smiles
and adds, “They live the life they were born into, they
accept it as natural, the way things are, were and will
be.”
Acceptance of the way things are and will be is rooted
in Mexico’s past. The Aztec, Toltec and Maya civilizations,
like the Spanish monarchy and the Catholic Church, governed
vertically with the tlaloani, the king, the Pope, the
viceroy, the governor possessing unquestioned authority.
“God’s will, everything is God’s will. To go against
God’s will is a crime.” One obeys or spends eternity in a
Hell that may or may not exist.
To go against the government also is a crime. Even in
cases where those who assassinated journalists and
protesters have been identified there are no arrests or
convictions.
Despite hardships, however, “Oaxaca is not a slave
labor camp.” Women gather in the evening with their
children and grandchildren in little communal playgrounds
to talk, tease, complain. Others sell tortillas hecho de
mano, roasting ears, pandulces. Men gather in tienditas to
share liter bottles of beer, talk sports or farming or
weather. Teenagers seek out secluded corners to whisper,
kiss. Cell phones abound. So do televised soap operas,
sporting events, art gallery openings, band concerts,
church festivals. In daily life one seldom is aware of the
hostage keepers. Of ways of living different from one’s
own.
38
This way of life, rooted in acceptance, is time-
consuming. Mexico’s workforce is among the most poorly paid
in the world. Many workers, both men and women, moonlight
in addition to holding regular jobs. Being continually
short of money necessitates doing one’s own repairs,
shopping carefully, riding buses, washing clothes. To
participate in a protest, join a study group, involve
oneself in politics is a luxury. To do what one can for
oneself and one’s children is full-time endeavor. An
occasional Sunday barbecue with friends is both a pleasure
and an achievement.
Nevertheless, “the way things are and always will be”
has begun to crack. In northern Mexico the success of the
drug-exporting corporations to challenge the political-
entrepreneurial-religious hierarchy and create a new “the
ways things are” has forced altered allegiances and
alliances. The ranch’s protective fencing has been
demolished and residents of nearly a dozen northern and
western states have fled or been killed or co-opted into
joining or tolerating the invaders.
In the south transnational mining, energy and lumber
investors have usurped landowners and campesinos,
devastated the environment and forced people out of their
homes. Citizen groups linked to traditions and the way
things were find themselves fighting to regain the hostage
way of life that Serrano describes. If limiting it was
preferable to being shoved into a gully without access to
the basic necessities.
But the majority is too preoccupied with the problems
and exigencies of daily existence to buck the system.
“Most of us in Oaxaca don’t want to be heroes,” Serrano
concludes. “We want to share joys and sorrows, be with our
children, have enough to eat. Dance. Sing. Work. I fought
against things when I was younger but I lost. I just want
39
to think about my granddaughter’s fifteenth birthday
celebration. The gifts. The delicious tres leches cake.”
40
DARREN DEMAREE Emily as an Outline in Red Dust
I admire the look
of the earth-products
that collect where Emily
has been. I like to name
them. I like to draw
poorly-defined faces
on them. I love
to take away the symbols
that could lead
other people to Emily.
If you ever see her,
it will be your triumph.
41
DARREN DEMAREE Emily as Compelled to Bury Her Hands Beneath the Pine Needles Almost all of what happens
next is hidden in the hands
of those that can control you,
your fate, can push your heart
around like it is more wheel
than dedicated tide. I am
almost always near a forest.
I am almost always caught
staring down beneath a giant
tree in one of those forests.
Sometimes, Emily smiles
& I know then that she has
absolutely nothing to reveal.
It is then that I most want her
arms pinned behind her back.
42
NIKOLETTA NOUSIOPOULOS martyr –for my father– I fear my prayers will be condemned
To wild woods, star-less-ness, or shadows,
Until a spark delivers me.
Father, I let go of my daughter spirit
Under a Byzantium sky. I am the crow
Who hides in the hazelnut tree
you created.
In a Korifian dream, St. Stephanos
holds emerald poems
In his palms. They are lodged too deep;
They are what bleeds between his knuckles,
Or they are my eye’s piety.
How was I to know you died
for the art of me?
When the crow flies
This means I have forgiven you.
43
PADMA PRASAD All Except One
They kept Ammi on two chairs. The lower half rested on
one of those old colonial wooden lounge chairs which had
flapping arms. Since she couldn’t breathe at all if she
leaned back, they got her a high chair and let her upper
half rest on it. The wounded left leg was kept on a wooden
stool with a cushion on it. Her shoulders trembled with
every wheezing breath she took.
In the morning, Madhani, the young servant maid oiled
her hair with coconut oil and then combed it into a tiny
knot. Then she stuck a little red rose with a hairpin on
the left side of her head. The doctor had said to trim her
toe nails. So Madhani worked on them with a pair of
scissors. The bad leg felt as if it would cave in at any
moment, as if it would detach from Ammi with the slightest
pressure. The skin was cracked and purple with some
discolored liquid oozing out here and there and when
Madhani held the foot, the flesh retained the pressure of
her fingers.
Ammi showed no sign of pain or anything else. Her
sari was lifted up to the knee. The smell in the room was
quite intolerable; the first thing anyone did as they
entered, was cover their noses.
Without being told, Madhani brought a basin of hot
water and a towel, and gently wiped the grandmother’s face,
neck and shoulders. Then she powdered her face and drew a
nice round red dot on her forehead and was rewarded with a
smile.
44
Already, Ammi had smartly adjusted to a new kind of
breathing. She took several short breaths and then followed
it up with one long deep breath.
Pandu came in every now and then to see how she was
doing. Pandu was her first grandson, the son of her eldest
son. He was far too strong and sturdy to go to school and
started to go with his father to the fields by the time he
was fourteen. No one could say anything because Pandu
belonged in the fields like the grass that grew there.
At first she had followed Pandu with her eyes, but
soon that was too much of an effort. When he saw the flies
bothering her, Pandu brought his sister, Lakshmi, put a
palmyra fan in her hands and told her to fan the
grandmother. But Lakshmi was not happy with this project
and left ten minutes after he had gone.
For the whole week, people had been coming from all
around. First, her five daughters came, each bringing
something that grew in her part of the country. One brought
a huge sack of chilies, another brought ground nuts, the
third brought sweet lime, the fourth brought mangoes, and
the fifth brought onions. With so many people in it, the
house became lively. People talked with each other, they
told stories to each other, there was laughter, there were
whispers, sometimes they arranged a couple of marriages, or
they made up a group and went to see a dance drama in the
next village.
The doctor, who had come almost every day for the past
four years to give Ammi, her insulin injection, came in
now. Pandu followed with the doctor’s briefcase. Ammi had
been a good patient. A little overweight. The doctor had
not been too confident about moving her from the pills to
insulin, but it soon turned out to be the right decision.
The insulin was good for her; he saw her sugar readings
45
begin to drop. Everything should have been good and normal,
but everything was not.
Ammi came to Lingapeta, when she was married two years
after puberty. Getting married was one thing, but to
actually see the River Godavari for the first time, it was
worth getting married for that. She loved this river
immediately. When the breeze rose from its waters, it
whispered the secrets of happiness to her. But she could
not go into the water, she could not wash her sins off in
this river, she could only look from the train, the train
on which she sat beside her new mother-in-law and where
relatives and strangers came to stare at the charming
little bride.
She was little only in how young she was. Standing,
she was five feet seven inches, taller than all the women
around her. Her bones were already large and capacious,
supporting a girth that reduced the number of folds she
could make in her sari. Her eyes were not pure black, they
were slightly grey. That and her rich, golden complexion
nourished by pure cow ghee and very loving parents drew
everyone into her gracious glow. They said she looked like
their Goddess.
As she looked through the train window, Ammi knew
there was some deep meaning in her yearning for the river.
She knew what it was when her father-in-law said to her
that Lingapeta was located on the banks of a tiny baby
tributary of the Godavari. In all the many years, they had
miraculously escaped the droughts and the floods because of
this special protection, they were the only ones to be
fortunate like that. So, the villagers worshipped the
little baby river every year in the month of June. They
offered flowers and fruit, lit lamps in the upturned halves
of lemons and spent the night on the little river bank.
46
For Ammi, this was not enough.
Year after year, she expressed to her mother-in-law,
how much she longed to wash her sins away in the mother
river. Her mother-in-law, a very practical woman, said,
“Wait, child, wait till you get many many more sins, then
we can wash them all away in one dip.”
She had gone through children, through grandchildren,
through snake bites and scorpion bites, colds, fevers,
diseases, harvests, deaths, and then she could no longer
wait. They got into the jutka and rode to Samalkot station
and took the Circar Express to Rajahmundry.
So Ammi, were your sins all washed away?
All except one, my child, the water turned muddy with
them.
How many did you count?
I didn’t think to count them. They were all washed
off, all, except one, I know that. Certainly when I came up
after the first dip, my head felt light, and the second and
third time, I knew I was a newborn being, born all over
again from the mother river. We can only be as divine as we
believe we are.
Pandu put the doctor’s briefcase on the little side
table. The doctor opened it very slowly and fumbled around
for his blood pressure monitor. It was very old and
stained. He knew what her pressure would be. It was just
another ritual, untying the strings on the cuff, wrapping
the cuff around her arm and hoping for a change.
When the doctor first saw her leg about two weeks ago,
he didn’t like it at all. She showed it to him saying it
had bothered her from the time they went on their
pilgrimage. She carefully lifted her sari and there in the
middle of her shin was a gaping wound; the flesh in the
center was yellow and soft. Why had she not shown it to him
47
as soon as she returned from the pilgrimage, when it first
started; how did she walk around with it all these days?
The doctor was too pragmatic to ask these kinds of
questions. He did his best to clean it and ordered them to
go to the hospital in Kakinada at once.
Lingapeta is some eighteen to twenty miles from
Kakinada. If you took the jutka and left around six in the
morning, you should reach Kakinada by ten, latest by eleven
am. But it was the ploughing season and the only bullocks
that were available were too weak to last even an hour. So,
they had to wait for three more days before Pandu tethered
a reasonably rested and healthy bullock and brought the
jutka to the front of the house and Ammi hoisted herself
into it.
They reached Kakinada at around 1 pm. The city was all
decorated. It was the opening day of the big movie with NTR
in the role of Lord Rama. Ammi saw the fever in Pandu’s
eyes and so they lined up in front of Sangamam, the ac
movie theatre next to the hospital. After the movie, Ammi
said the festival season was coming soon, so she might as
well get some new saris, and then there was a doll shop,
the children haven’t had any new dolls to play with for
such a long time, so she should get dolls for all the
grandchildren. So, they got all these things and then it
was a bit too late to see a doctor. They drove home
reviewing the movie, with Pandu whistling as he cracked the
whip on the bullock, whose name was Krishna.
Pandu’s grandfather was sitting in his easy chair,
under the Neem tree in front of the house. He was talking
to two new laborers who had just started working for them.
He saw Ammi get down from the jutka with all her bags of
shopping, he saw how her face glowed and he was happy they
had listened to the doctor. Only, no one told him they had
48
not even stepped across the threshold of the hospital.
In the night, Ammi moaned like a wild, wounded animal.
The pain went into every part of her body and settled
through from one layer to another, until she felt damaged
in her very center. That was the night’s story. In the
morning, she got up as always, measuring the rice from the
rice bin, sorting out the rotten tomatoes from the good
ones, talking to the cow when the milkman brought her in to
milk her, arguing with the vegetable man who tried to cheat
with his weights, and looking at the hens and getting their
eggs.
Twenty eight days ago, only twenty eight days ago, I
stood waist deep in the mother river. It was not water, it
was a living fluid. I felt its sacredness against my flesh.
In all the noise, the talk, and the laughter, I knew the
first silence of the water. What more can a human being ask
to know? All except one. The mother river is telling me
there's something she couldn't wash away. This is the only
way to get it out. That's what this is all about.
The doctor untied the strings of the blood pressure
cuff and wrapped it around her swollen arm and placed the
stethoscope in his ears; then, with an effort to disguise
his numbness, he began to inflate the rubber ball.
He couldn't be detached – they had told him about the
trip; still, to go all the way to Kakinada and return
without treating the leg, they did not understand how bad
it was. It was time to talk bluntly; he had said to them,
she will lose her leg if it's not treated properly. That's
decided then, she had replied, I will die with all my body
parts.
Then one afternoon, Ammi sat alone in the kitchen,
singing a song to forget the pain. She was all alone there
because her daughter-in-law had a rage in her heart, it was
49
a rage that came and went on some days of the month. This
rage maddened her and the only way she could cool down was
to go and sit at the pond that was in front of her mother’s
house and weep till she was tired.
Ammi’s leg was burning hot. She fanned herself with
the slightly burnt palmyra fan that was kept in the kitchen
to fan the fire. For the first time in the longest time,
her eyes were cloudy and she felt like dashing her forehead
to the ground. She looked up to see Madhani’s mother
standing in front of her, her hands all folded and her face
cringing and ready to do anything.
“What is it?” Ammi asked.
“Madhani’s stomach is sick. I came to help with the
housework,” she said.
The last time Madhani’s mother came, she created a lot
of bad feelings in the house; some women have that kind of
nature. Also, Ammi saw her stealing rice and sugar from the
cupboards and stopped her from coming any more for work.
As soon as she saw Ammi, Madhani's mother knew the
deep change that pain had made in her. She knew how to
talk, how to say the right things, the things that Ammi
wanted to hear at that time.
“Amma, Amma, Ammagaru, how hale and hearty you used to
be, like a queen, taking care of everything,” she started a
lamentation. “My heart is paining to see you like this,
now. How did you let such a thing happen? I can only blame
it on evil eyes that have been envious of your prosperity.”
Then her voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. “Where is
that one, your daughter-in-law? Ammagaru, you are so kind
to her, but she is a poisonous one, a snake woman that will
harm you for nothing. You will not let me say anything
about her, but I have heard her talking to the fisherwoman
and the milkman’s wife about you. Ammagaru, what did you do
50
to deserve such a daughter-in-law.”
Ammi smiled at the shabby, shrunken Madhani’s mother
and pointed to the wound on her leg. “Stop that talk and do
something for this,” she said.
Madhani’s mother covered her mouth with her hands.
“Only Goddess Durga can help you,” she said. “How,
Ammagaru, how did this happen to you?”
Ammi told her about the pilgrimage to the river. She
had taken her third dip in the water, she said, when she
felt something wrapping itself around her leg. Maybe, it
was a water snake or maybe it was just a weed or even a
cloth. It made her jerk and she slipped a little. That was
all she could say. When they were returning home, she did
not even think about it. At that time, the place on the
leg was just red and numb.
Madhani’s mother said that she knew of only one thing
that could work in such situations. Immediately, she took
some tamarind and some neem leaves from the tree in front
and ground it into a very fine thick paste. Then she
applied that green paste on the wound. Ammi watched as if
it was somebody else's leg. As she applied one layer after
another, Ammi felt a chillness starting from her feet and
slowly making its way up all over her body right to the top
of her head, right to her ear lobes. Finally there was a
solution, she thought. Madhani’s mother told her to let it
dry and then when it peeled off, the skin would be whole
again.
All washed off except one. Which one could it be?
Something so big, it deserves such a major punishment and
so much pain? I am thinking and thinking from as long ago
as I can remember what have I done that cannot be washed
off. Or maybe it was not one from this life. Maybe it is
one from a past birth. It must be the scorpions that I
51
killed, they have cursed me. Especially the last one, which
was swollen with babies. Who can win at this game? It’s
alright if that’s what this is about, I couldn’t let them
sting someone, maybe Pandu or Lakshmi.
The doctor looked at the reading, her pressure had
dropped some more; he thought, she may not last through the
day. First, he got the insulin ready, about sixty units of
bovine insulin. Pandu stood beside him, watching every
movement without blinking. The doctor went to the window
and tapped the syringe to get rid of the bubble in the
insulin. Just as he pressed the needle into her arm, Ammi’s
husband, Babuji, stood in the doorway; his lips were
tightly clamped and he had only slept for a very few hours.
Still, his plentiful silver hair was neatly parted and
combed. His slim and delicate face was clean shaven and he
looked for answers on every face in the room. When she
realized he was there, Ammi moistened her lips with her
tongue and tried to sit up.
“I just took her blood pressure,” the doctor said,
looking at Ammi’s husband. “It’s a bit low, sir; it should
get better after she has her lunch.”
Babuji went to the adjoining room. They could hear the
safe door opening and closing. Then he called for Pandu. A
few minutes later, Pandu came back and gave the doctor his
fees. Meanwhile the doctor had prepared another syringe, a
larger one, with morphine. He gave it to Ammi and then
carefully put back the blood pressure monitor, the
syringes, his stethoscope and his spectacles into the
briefcase and shut it quietly. She had always served him
lunch if he happened to come near lunch time. He stood for
a minute before her with folded hands. “I will come
tomorrow, then, Ammagaru,” he said and gave the briefcase
52
to Pandu.
They brought her lunch immediately after the doctor
left: cracked wheat, some lentil in a bowl, another bowl of
boiled vegetables without salt and a cup of curd. Ammi
looked at the food and her lips began to move; she pursed
them in and out of her face. Her first daughter took a
spoon and started to mix the lentil into the cracked wheat.
After thoroughly mixing it for several minutes, she finally
scooped a spoonful and brought it to Ammi’s mouth. Ammi
turned her face away slowly, her mouth clamped shut.
Another daughter came and tried to feed her, but she turned
her face away just the same. Her youngest daughter was an
outspoken woman and she started to scold Ammi in a drastic
and urgent tone. But Ammi put her head down and was not
even listening. She closed her eyes. They took the food
away and whispered that maybe she wanted to sleep and they
should feed her once she woke up.
One by one they quietly left the room. Pandu pulled
the window near and was about to leave when he heard her
calling him. He bent his head close to her.
“What did your mother make special today?” Ammi
whispered.
“My mother made prawn curry today, Ammi.”
“Go and put some on a plate and bring it for me
without anybody seeing, Pandu.”
“Yes, Ammi. I will do that. “
He returned a few minutes later with a covered plate
of rice and the prawn curry and carefully placed it in
front of her. She removed the cover and slowly inhaled its
aroma. Her hands shook badly, and she let Pandu take a
spoonful to her mouth.
Ammi’s tongue came to life with so much intensity she
surprised Pandu by straightening up from the chair on which
53
she was leaning. She ate the first mouthful with an
analytical approach to the ingredients.
“What oil is your mother using? She has changed the
oil.”
“She is using the refined sesame seed oil, Ammi.”
“I knew it. One week I am not in the kitchen and she
spoils everything. This oil has no flavor, so how can
anything cooked with it be tasty. Did your grandfather not
notice? Did he not say anything about this? I am very
surprised.” She began to cough without control and went
back to her supine position.
Pandu stroked her shoulder till the cough subsided.
“Pandu.”
“Yes, Ammi?”
“Can you heat it and bring it? It will taste a bit
better.”
At about four in the evening, there was a big
commotion in front of the house. Ammi’s final child, Babu
had arrived from Madras with his Tamil wife and three year
old daughter. They brought tins of halwa. Within an hour,
the first tin was secretly opened. The Tamil daughter-in-
law was coming to the house for the first time after the
marriage. She was a dark girl with a good strong featured
face, a sharp nose and big wide eyes. They talked about
these features for many hours.
The brothers and sisters huddled and whispered
together in a corner in Ammi’s room. Ammi drifted in and
out, in a semi-conscious state. She heard the word
‘tamarind’ repeated several times.
If Madhani had not been sick, Madhani’s mother would
not have come that day. If Madhani’s mother had not come,
she would not have seen this unwashed sin. If she had not
put the tamarind paste, maybe things would be different.
54
But who is to say that? The end was already decided, it
could be done through tamarind paste or it could be done
through sandalwood paste; it could be done through
Madhani’s mother, or it could be done through one of my own
daughters. What difference would it have made? However we
cheat ourselves from facing the truth, one way or another,
the truth doesn’t go anywhere and its shape doesn’t change
anyhow.
A little before dusk, Madhani came with a towel and
hot water and freshened Ammi for the evening. The lamp boy
brought his little kerosene lamp and lit the one hung from
the ceiling. It was still not dark, but he had been
instructed to make things bright.
Out in front of the house, Babuji rose from his easy
chair and stretched his hands above his head. He stood
looking down the mud road for a long time. Finally,
“Babuji, your dinner is ready for you,” he heard them call
and went through the house. On the way, he stopped in
Ammi’s room. She was looking very nice. Madhani had even
managed to change her sari. She was wearing a purple
Venkatagiri sari, the gold thread glinted as she breathed.
He pulled up a little stool and sat beside her.
“What is worrying you now?”
“Everyone has come,” she said.
“Yes, your last son looks very prosperous.”
“They brought halwa, did anyone bring you some?”
“Yes, yes.”
“They have come from such a long way.”
“They didn’t come in a jutka. They came in the train.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“Then what is the new problem for you?”
“Everyone has taken so much trouble to come. It
shouldn’t be a wasteful journey.”
55
He patted her hand. “I’ll worry about that, you take
rest and get well.” He was about to get up when he
remembered something. “Otherwise, she’ll cook everything
with this new refined oil, and I can’t take it too much
longer, that’s all I can say.” He turned to Pandu, who
stood in the doorway. “Yes, yes, I am coming,” he said to
him.
Only one left and there’s no time now to know which
one. I’ll just have to come back and deal with it, I
suppose.
56
MARTIN WILLITTS, JR. Okitsu
Based on the series by Ando Hiroshige, The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tokaido, picture 18
Near the Okitsu River, seaside “Miho no matsubara” Note: “Miho no matsubara” is the site of the Hagoromo ("The Feathered Robe") Noh play. The story of a celestial being flying is overcome by the beauty of the white sands, green pines, and clear water. She removes her feathered robe and hangs it over a pine tree before bathing. A fisherman, Hakuryo, takes her robe and refuses to return it until she performs the dance for him. She can not return to heaven without her robe, so she complies. She dances in the spring twilight and returns to the sky in the light of the full moon leaving Hakuryo looking longingly after her.
1.
Water dances
white feathers
of milkweed seed.
2.
A sumo on a packhorse
keeps a secret robe
57
dancing in his heart.
3.
Pine grove on sand,
water invisible as light
never returning.
4.
Sumo in kago
too tired of fighting
to dance.
5.
Land flat
as a robe
a naked moon left behind.
58
LESLIE AGUILAR
Water Mexican
Barreling through the air like a bare-knuckled fist,
I am raw hide & pink panties clinging to the edge
of my narrow hips as I leap into a turquoise tiled
swimming pool. I am a child, & I haven’t learned
how to swim yet, haven’t learned to thrash my limbs
violently beneath the surface to keep my head afloat.
I must have known then, the moment before I flopped
belly first into the pool, that I would float. I must have.
Months later, when my white friend asks if I can swim,
I’ll lower my head towards the creek bed beneath
the broken bridge where we are standing & say, No,
there are snakes in this water. Gesturing with her index
finger, she will point at the water moccasins gliding
beneath the water, & say, those Mexicans can swim.
I’ll laugh at the slip of her tongue, not knowing then
the water moccasin is a venomous snake that claims
the waters of Southern states. Its defense tactics are
often over-exaggerated as aggressiveness. Unless
threatened, the moccasin minds its own. I’ll learn
59
this years later, just like I’ll learn how to tread water
out of necessity, & she will learn how to swim faster.
LESLIE AGUILAR La Lengua de Lenguas I come from a long line of mujeres
with hips like washing machines
stuck on spin cycle. They gyrate
in a circle around caballeros without
horses or llanuras to call home.
I am afraid of my heritage hips:
the way they expand like plains.
Debajo de mi cintura como mesetas –
but they are easier to carry around
than the propeller letter R
at the end of my last name.
It slices through knots in my tongue.
Hasta la sangre no es mi sangre.
The taste is rust on door hinges
to rooms I cannot lie down in,
60
like licking a battery and tasting
only burnt garlic or onion. My tongue,
a foreign flag I am afraid to wave
over the Llano, stains hems on faded
blue jeans but washes out with spit
& laundry soap. The detergent label
tacked to the front of the blue bottle
shows a plush bear that reminds me
of Bimbo, & the way I hoard sweet cakes
of my childhood on my plateau hips.
Dígame que tú recuerdas, begs my Abuelo,
in his mustached voice. I come from
prairies & sun cracked skin that burns
against cool cotton sheets on a bed,
but I am sweat on the Jarrito de Toronja
I clutch in my fist like a passport
porque mi lengua no es mi lengua.
61
LESLIE AGUILAR Canicas In a wrinkled Ziploc bag,
twist tie, a circular tie dye
of colors & colors & colors.
¡Canicas!
Marbles!
I stutter over the word
instead of letting it dip
in the bowl of my mouth.
In the plant room, Papa
hangs a glass wind chime
that reflects light in metallic
shades of green & blue & red
that remind me of glittering.
The greens are mint leaves
62
framing Papa’s backyard patio.
Electric blues are bug zappers,
hanging from a limp clothesline,
daring me to lick the sound,
if only for a second, just to know
what electricity might taste like.
Reds are dusty clearance tags
tacked to the front of each item
in Bennett Office Supply, where
Papa worked every day until
he just couldn’t do it anymore.
Each colored ball of glass burns
inside in my palm until Papa asks
if I know how to play the game.
Marbles!
¡Canicas!
I let the word rest
on my tongue before
launching it from
the back of my throat
like an over exaggerated
KAPOW!
63
LESLIE AGUILAR Color Me Coral Abuela, I have searched
for answers to fill
the bare spaces
that taper off at the end,
of your hushed conversations,
but found none.
You talk with your hands
instead of your lips.
Coral nail polish means
you are feeling better,
but when you pull
your blue veined fingers
from the dishwater,
I can see from chipped spaces
on your fingernails that
you will get no rest.
Abuela, tell me your secrets.
Afterwards, I will remove