i

there was a time when i’d

sit for hours

 

on my AR speakers, looking

out the window at the rain,

 

listening to miles davis, or

glenn gould playing bach.

 

and i always tried to count

the rain drops as they fell,

 

naming them after horses

that i’d known:

 

                 lt. claiborne

 

                timely arrival

 

                lynody

 

horses don’t lie. trust me

 

ii

well, i used to hum some-

times and sing.

 

you know. the kinds of

songs you sing

 

when you’re in love with

a flower or a stone

 

or a tree. not a lotta

fun here, perhaps,

 

nothing to write home

about. for i

 

trust my 5.0 mustang

more than any man

 

i’ve ever known.

 

and i sing tallis.

and i shoot guns.

 

iii

so i’d make a terrible wife.

(so what?) but i have loved

 

all my children to the deepest

bone and all their sorrows

 

line my eyes, my face. even now
their laughter still flows

 

through my fingers when I play

my cello or iron these clothes.

 

they’re in my memory,

they’re in my blood.

 

sometimes i see them strutting

down the street, their

 

pendelton shirt tails flapping

behind them in the wind,

 

but if i smile and wave, they’ll
slip into the shadows and be

 

gone — so i simply nod my head

and drive on by. those crazy

 

little vatos, my third-grade

homeboys, who may die

 

some day for a barrio only

six blocks long.

 

georgie sanchez, j.j. castillo,

and little ricky davalos.

 

ricky. you remember him, don’t

you? i taught him how to tie his

shoes and almost how to read. his

cousin got smacked last

 

year in lodi. (mac 10, i believe.)
ricky, he brought me flowers.

 

iv

yes, i’d make a terrible wife,

telling someone that i

 

loved him but always afraid

to close my eyes,

 

kiss his lips, whisper his

name, hoping I’d

 

see you there instead. (yeah,

well, shame on me, OK?)

 

but still, i’m not afraid of

putting on weight,

chopping off my hair,

or dying.

 

and loneliness too means

nothing to me, just

 

poetry now, or johann
sebastian bach.

 

fresh-cut flowers.

jeff and ellie’s
pinot noir.