cool winter settles
raindrops stick to every spoke
i long for snowflakes
Winter Without Snow
cool winter settles
raindrops stick to every spoke
i long for snowflakes
poetry
The Clouds of a Crisis
the clouds move in
on our long walk across town,
the bike ride’s end
tagging along my subconscious
their cacophony emanates
through slick crosswalks
and cart-pulling passersby
as we make our way into
the theatre where they will become
the stage presences
they’ve only seen in pictures
after the show my colleague announces,
heavy accent and all,
It’s raining men,
and his prim-and-proper appearance,
his paisley umbrella,
fit in a warm spot
at the bottom of my heart
i teach one class (solo today),
the chart comparing schools
in Spain to America
too dense to ever fit
within the bounds of
a chalk-dust ridden
minuscule version of education
the rides home, back out,
home, back out, cause waves
of daily inconsistency that
pour out of the sky,
bearing down on the heaviness
of my home across the sea
my country sits divided
on a fence i cannot fathom,
these moments of
familiarity and love
bursting through
the clouds of a crisis
none of my countrymen can understand
in darkness,
on rain-slick tiled side streets,
i make my final pedal,
capture your words on the screen,
and wonder when we can
relinquish the rain
Elevator Doors
with humidity-ridden relentless curls
popping out all over my head,
a blue bathing suit and haphazard sarong,
i stand ashamed in the crowded elevator
they wait for me below,
our words carved in the sand
inside a heart as haphazard as me
we stop on level ten,
and in the moment of waiting
for silver doors to re-close,
i see his whole family:
girls dressed to the nines
in their Sunday best,
older mother in wheelchair,
he in tie and collared shirt
it is too crowded for them,
but not for the words he hands
over to me like pieces of gold
bonito, he begins,
and looking down at my Crocs,
i’m sure he is mistaken.
que has hecho, es muy bonito,
(the ever-formal verbiage of Castellano)
and in that singular moment
between when the doors
have opened and closed,
i manage a mental translation,
remember our words in the sand
(WE MISS YOU),
and hand him back a timid Gracias
what you have made,
he tells me,
is very beautiful.
and i can’t decide
if it is his words or mine
that mean more to me
Imperialism
i could eat chocolate
Aztec root brought across sea
mint taste touches soul
First Spain Vacation
an eighteenth floor view
salty air, waves kissing beach
peaceful, well-earned sleep
Trigo
wheat.
it’s my favorite Spanish word
learned in studies
to present the idea of hay
for Halloween
for me?
wheat beer,
an entire liter.
we walked across town
in search of the path
that would lead our girls
to a view of 2000 years of history
we were interrupted
by clients who thought
1.5 liters of beer
could never be enough
we walked across town,
our children in tow
and this is my Spain
as pure as anything,
the real beer,
the Pilsner to top it off,
and the warmth we swam an ocean for–
our kids’ words intermingled
like love in a basket
Trigo
wheat
it’s what makes us
who we are
A Vacation Day
small mountains pounded by wind
for a million more years
than our Rockies,
we listen to the persistent slap
of waves coming in,
smashing into slate,
bubbling up along the beach,
a Mediterranean breeze
no competition
for howling Fourteeners’ gales
just like in Colorado,
only shrubbery will grow here,
yet it persists
beneath a blistering sun
that has taken a vacation day,
just as we do now
instead, sprinkles of rain
mock our first steps,
and we discover fluffy carrascos
and giant yucca-like palm bushes,
a chaparral setting with
soil colorado, tinted red,
the roots of our state
along the shores of this sea
Drooping Blue Tents
we have a car
but are now so accustomed
to walking
that it sits in front of our building
we move across town,
the streets as familiar
as the smiles on their faces.
we order beer, wine,
and a baklava-like mirengue-topped
pastry that tastes like s’mores
and is gobbled up in two minutes
they stand in front of the circus sign
and we make our way across the bridge,
Reina Victoria in our back pocket,
coupons ready
for the first time we witness
the financial crisis
that weighs heavily on
the drooping blue tents,
kids as young as five performing,
throwing in camels, pythons,
and even Monster High,
holding up a sign at the end,
¡Viva El Circo!
while two-thirds of the seats
are vacuous reminders
of where people are
on a Saturday night
best. circus. ever.
is what my girls say,
never complaining once
about the long walk home
but all i can hear,
all i can see
as we move along rain-washed sidewalks,
their tiles as slippery as death,
is the American song,
“Unbreak My Heart”
whose Spanish rendition
and brightly-lit acrobatic act
brought tears to my eyes
the words
though they didn’t belong
the seats
though mostly empty
trampled out the desperation
that sits unspotlighted
in the back of every
slightly drooping circus tent
The Single Window
not a window,
not even a mirror, but
a singular view of the world
whose translation is all but lost
it is a desk
with a small man
filing paperwork in the same office
where i stood twenty-five days back
(the first time i thought to be done)
just like everything governmental,
there is no explanation,
no offering of help,
no taking of envelopes from one
desperate-to-get-paid employee
to the paper gods in Murcia
and why didn’t you send it all through
la ventanilla única? he asks,
as flippant as the day is bright.
oh, i want to reply, Google translate ready,
you mean the single window?
sorry, didn’t realize
that the windows of the world
could be hidden so obscurely
behind words that are doors
Bleeding Through
just as i miss the news,
don’t have to hear about
who won the football game,
and find myself falling further and further
into this new world of mine,
i almost lost sight of the day
my family came together
to put my grandmother’s ashes
next to my grandpa,
her home, house, and store
ever-present in my childhood memories
the funeral i swore
i’d never miss.
but oceans can run deep,
and i’ll never swim across
the distance that puts me here,
that makes me unlike
all i’ve known, all i’ve ever been,
into the new form that still bleeds
with my grandmother’s blood
