" the poem rises with the bread "
I have made tortillas with translucent
onions, a dozen eggs, chorizo
and a scent of garlic, have kneaded
cuban bread while pondering a point
of law for next day's argument,
replied to questions of impatient
children, and in between the lawyering
and the mothering, the poem rises
with the bread.
My strength which once was legendary
in the slaying of dim dragons, crass
officials and philandering husbands
is now translucent as the onions
in my tortilla española;
too many squirming toddlers interrupting
my summations to imagined juries;
too many poems stillborn by fast sleep,
at side of stove, pen, spoon in hand.
I have unpacked my worries
from supermarket paper bags
and watched my babes grow wildly
despite faithful fertilizing,
pruning, efforts at strong praise
and prayer. Tomato seeds have scattered
on the kitchen counter while calamares
vanished on their way from stove to table,
my children's hunger for this food a deeper
hunger for some word, embraces, far away
from poems, clients, legal
arguments or family dissension.
The poem was the early victim.
The children's needs came next,
the clients suffered also.
I am at times not here,
at time float into poems lines
the petals of dead flowers smell
of burning sugar in my best
cazuela as I fall asleep
tending to arroz con leche
sorting socks and underwear,
and it was one, the smell of burnt milk
woke me and the poem the clean
socks the carefully made plans
all spilt and he was out again
the children were asleep
not home again
the therapy the tears the camarones
al ajillo tortillas with minced
onions dark chorizo and the eggs
from farmers with free-ranging hens.
The poem rests in fragrant yeasty
bread covered to grow at night,
in darkness, smelling of sweet
tomato seeds and garlic and simmering
sofrito. The poem tastes of warm pudín
with raisins, with a hint of tears
and a soupçon of bitter anger.
The poem has changed messy
diapers, argued with sly prosecutors,
sung babes to sleep in multilingual
murmurs. The poem is so many years
of baking, wrinkles and gray hair
in palm trees, boleros, sex and love
and nights nostalgic for another land.
The poem is so small, an infant's hands
so soft the sound of falling snow-
© 2003 Silvia A. Brandon-Perez
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