My Wicked Wicked Ways: Poems Read online

  and never gives back pencils

  just sleeps all day

  while we do numbers

  or all the time in a red pen

  she got for her birthday

  writes Susan Susan Susan

  in fancy letters

  The nun says

  we must be kind

  to everyone

  or rot in fires

  including Susan

  who is sick

  and has the fits

  till she gets tired

  then two boys

  have to hold her legs

  down and one girl her dress

  and she gets to sleep all day

  and wakes with crumpled hair

  and spit

  This

  is who I told

  I don’t like you

  because you stink

  of chocolate

  and menstruation

  and who is sick

  already 48 hours

  but I don’t care

  Twister Hits Houston

  Papa was on the front porch.

  Mama was in the kitchen.

  Mama was trying

  to screw a lightbulb into a fixture.

  Papa was watching the rain.

  Mama, it’s a cyclone for sure,

  he shouted to his wife in the kitchen.

  Papa who was sitting on his front porch

  when the storm hit

  said the twister ripped

  the big back oak to splinter,

  tossed a green sedan into his garden,

  and banged the back door

  like a mad cat wanting in.

  Mama who was in the kitchen

  said Papa saw everything,

  the big oak ripped to kindling,

  the green sedan land out back,

  the back door slam and slam.

  I missed it.

  Mama was in the kitchen Papa explained.

  Papa was sitting on the front porch.

  That light bulb is still sitting

  where I left it. Don’t matter now.

  Got no electricity anyway.

  Curtains

  Rich people don’t need them.

  Poor people tie theirs into fists

  or draw them tight as modest brides

  up to the neck.

  Inside they hide bright walls.

  Turquoise or lipstick pink.

  Good colors in another country.

  Here they can’t make you forget

  the dinette set that isn’t paid for,

  floorboards the landlord needs to fix,

  raw wood, linoleum roses,

  the what you wanted but didn’t get.

  Joe

  Joe Joe’s mama’s baby

  grown man 54 years old and lazy

  Joe who is landlord and landlady

  upstairs neighbor of Bianca and Benny

  and let us have our Beatle fan club

  under basement stairs where

  waterbugs crawled out from all

  over our favorite picture

  of Paul McCartney

  Watch out said Blanca

  Watch out said Benny

  Little girls beware Run away

  he was the boogie man

  the same Blanca saw asleep

  with only underwear

  and a lady’s stocking on his head

  He and Davy the Baby’s brother

  in that garage for hours

  Fat cigars butts on the floor

  like those waterbugs we killed

  beneath our shoe And on the walls

  naked lady pictures

  real and not real

  for Joe and Davy’s brother

  to look at slow

  And now Joe’s mama who is tired

  who is a little puff of smoke

  behind the screen calls Joe

  out of that garage and quick

  while Joe who is also tired

  yells upstairs no and takes

  his fat cigars and his fat nose

  and his aqua car and goes

  Then we don’t hear

  hours and hours and

  meeting is adjourned until

  when all will read in the papers

  tomorrow how Joe who is the same

  who says Yes I like go-go

  and No I don’t see Beatle movies

  dies under a wheel

  on the road to St. Charles

  which everybody knows

  was God’s will

  Traficante

  for Dennis

  Pink like a starfish’s belly

  or a newborn rat,

  she hid the infected hand

  for some time

  before they noticed.

  First the skin had been smooth

  as the left hand.

  Then the fence

  had poked through,

  a tiny slit, the mouth of a small fish.

  A crispy scab had stitched it to a pucker

  but this was picked on until the wound

  turned a purple-pink

  and gradually became swollen

  and hurt to the touch.

  She liked to draw the fat hand

  into her sleeve,

  keep it hiding there,

  a fish in its cave.

  Sometimes it would come out

  and she would talk to it.

  At school the teacher

  pulled the hand out suddenly

  and the child yelped.

  The mother took her

  to Traficante’s Drugs

  where the doctor had an office

  behind the case of eyeglasses

  all colors and different styles.

  He asked to see the hand.

  The fish poked out

  from the cuff of a nubby sleeve,

  darted back in, then was out again

  and placed upon the table

  beneath the bright lamp.

  One finger pressed its side

  and she whimpered.

  The doctor took down from the shelf

  the medical encyclopedia, vol.2,

  and holding her by the wrist

  said turn around.

  Mrs. Ortiz was having a prescription filled

  for Reynaldo’s fever and was asking

  how much when the book came down.

  MY WICKED WICKED WAYS

  Isn’t a bad girl almost like a boy?

  —MAXINE HONG KINGSTON

  My Wicked Wicked Ways

  This is my father.

  See? He is young.

  He looks like Errol Flynn.

  He is wearing a hat

  that tips over one eye,

  a suit that fits him good,

  and baggy pants.

  He is also wearing

  those awful shoes,

  the two-toned ones

  my mother hates.

  Here is my mother.

  She is not crying.

  She cannot look into the lens

  because the sun is bright.

  The woman,

  the one my father knows,

  is not here.

  She does not come till later.

  My mother will get very mad.

  Her face will turn red

  and she will throw one shoe.

  My father will say nothing.

  After a while everyone

  will forget it.

  Years and years will pass.

  My mother will stop mentioning it.

  This is me she is carrying.

  I am a baby.

  She does not know

  I will turn out bad.

  Six Brothers

  In Grimm’s tale “The Six Swans” a sister keeps a six-year silence and weaves six thistle shirts to break the spell that has changed her brothers into swans. She weaves all but the left sleeve of the final shirt, and when the brothers are changed back into men, the youngest lacks only his left arm and has in its place a
swan’s wing.

  In Spanish our name means swan.

  A great past—castles maybe

  or a Sahara city,

  but more likely

  a name that stuck

  to a barefoot boy

  herding the dusty flock

  down the bright road.

  We’ll never know.

  Great-grandparents might

  but family likes to keep to silence—

  perhaps with reason

  though we don’t need far back to go.

  On our father’s side we have a cousin,

  second, but cousin nonetheless,

  who shot someone, his wife I think.

  And on the other hand, there’s

  mother’s brother who shot himself.

  Then there’s us—

  seven ways to make the name or break it.

  Our father has it planned:

  oldest, you’re doctor,

  second, administration,

  me, he shrugs, you should’ve been reporting weather,

  next, musician,

  athlete,

  genius,

  and youngest—well,

  you’ll take the business over.

  You six a team

  keeping to the master plan,

  the lovely motion of tradition.

  Appearances are everything.

  We live for each other’s expectations.

  Brothers, it is so hard to keep up with you.

  I’ve got the bad blood in me I think,

  the mad uncle, the bit of the bullet.

  Ask me anything.

  Six thistle shirts. Keep a vow of silence.

  I’ll do it. But I’m earthbound

  always in my admiration.

  My six brothers, graceful, strong.

  Except for you, little one-winged,

  finding it as difficult as me

  to keep the good name clean.

  Mariela

  One day you forget his bitter smell

  and one day you forget your shame.

  You remember how your small cry

  rose like a blackbird from the corn,

  when you picked yourself up from the earth

  how the clouds moved on.

  Josie Bliss

  When you die, she used to say to me, my fears will end.

  —PABLO NERUDA, MEMOIRS

  Explain

  about the hand

  the infection

  raised

  from some

  nostalgia

  a tropical dream

  of Wednesdays

  a bitter sorrow

  like the salt

  between the breasts

  the palm

  a lotus

  a brown girl

  around the neck

  sleeper tell

  me

  the ones

  you held like me

  the ones who loved

  your hard wrists

  and belly

  this

  tiger circle this

  knife blade

  man I have no power

  over

  I the Woman

  I

  am she

  of your stories

  the notorious

  one

  leg wrapped

  around

  the door

  bare heart

  sticking

  like a burr

  the fault

  the back street

  the weakness

  that’s me

  I’m

  the Thursday

  night

  the poor

  excuse

  I am she

  I’m dark

  in the veins

  I’m

  intoxicant

  I’m hip

  and good skin

  brass

  and sharp tooth

  hard lip pushed

  against

  the air

  I’m lightbeam

  no stopping me

  I am

  your temporary

  thing

  your own

  mad

  dancing

  I am

  a live

  wildness

  left

  behind

  one earring

  in the car

  a fingerprint

  on skin

  the black smoke

  in your

  clothes

  and in

  your

  mouth

  Something Crazy

  The man with the blue hat

  doesn’t come back anymore.

  He stopped a long time ago.

  Before I got married. Before the kids came.

  Nobody looks at me like that anymore.

  I remember days I couldn’t wait to work.

  He left me big tips. He had a good smile.

  But what I gave my eye for

  was that moment when he’d turn around

  as he was leaving

  and look at me.

  Oh I was crazy

  for that man a long time.

  Came in every day for three years.

  Never said a word besides what he was having.

  He’d eat and pay and just as he was leaving,

  turn around.

  I was young then, understand?

  Nobody ever looked at me before.

  I even dreamed that he might take me

  to my high school dance, imagine.

  Waitresses have come and gone.

  I’ve stayed on.

  The man with the blue hat

  doesn’t come back.

  I wish he did.

  I wish he did.

  Just so I could say, Mister

  that was quite a crush I had.

  Just so I could laugh.

  What I felt for him was different,

  something crazy. The kind of thing

  you look for all your life.

  In a redneck bar down the street

  my crazy

  friend Pat

  boasts she can chug

  one bottle of Pabst

  down one swig

  without even touching

  teeth grip

  swing and it’s up in

  she glugging like a watercooler

  everyone watching

  boy that crazy

  act every time gets them

  bartender runs over

  says lady don’t

  do that again

  Love Poem # 1

  a red flag

  woman I am

  all copper

  chemical

  and you an ax

  and a bruised

  thumb

  unlikely

  pas de deux

  but just let

  us wax

  it’s nitro

  egypt

  snake

  museum

  zoo

  we are

  connoisseurs

  and commandos

  we are rowdy

  as a drum

  not shy like Narcissus

  nor pale as plum

  then it is I want to hymn

  and hallelujah

  sing sweet sweet jubilee

  you my religion

  and I a wicked nun

  The blue dress

  at the corner

  over your shoulder

  waving solitary small

  the blue dress

  bouquet in one arm

  blue wind

  curve of the belly

  the blue dress is waving

  goodbye

  Five-and-ten

  there are flowers

  and you buy her some

  You want to gather

  her small shoulders

  in one arm like a brother

  Want to tell her that you love her

  You do not love her

  You buy her flowers br />
  Sunday’s pass is good

  till six she says

  Her arms are thin

  The nuns get mad she says

  Her white skin

  She knows the subways now

  as if she were a native

  The simple curve of the jaw

  Someone offers his seat

  You never noticed

  She takes it

  And her eyes are blue

  The meal you paid for

  you can’t eat at all

  She talks of towns you know

  names you don’t

  asks if she can have

  what you’re not eating

  She says any day now

  You don’t know what to say

  Monday is my birthday

  Her favorite color is blue

  Blue as a pearl

  the blue dress approaches late

  You wait along the whale display

  a slower gait a thinner smile

  swell of the belly

  ridiculously blue

  The blue dress embraces you

  The letter said come Sunday

  Sunday is best

  No men allowed

  I am fine

  At the museum wait

  You wear your best suit

  and the tie your mother gave you

  You buy the ticket for your flight

  Sunday at the museum

  the blue dress

  yes

  The Poet Reflects on Her Solitary Fate

  She lives alone now.

  Has abandoned the brothers,

  the rooms of fathers

  and many mothers.

  They have left her

  to her own device.

  Her nightmares and pianos.

  She owns a lead pipe.

  The stray lovers

  have gone home.

  The house is cold.

  There is nothing on TV.

  She must write poems.

  His Story

  I was born under a crooked star.

  So says my father.

  And this perhaps explains his sorrow.

  An only daughter

  whom no one came for

  and no one chased away.

  It is an ancient fate.

  A family trait we trace back

  to a great aunt no one mentions.

  Her sin was beauty.