in the living room,
on the embroidered couch
the light was dim;
the only sign of death
was in the air --
the stale fetor of yellow tail
my great-aunt blanca on the left;
on the right, my great-aunt la actriz,
professional queen of drama
proclaimer of poetry
"your hair is like mine was," she said,
"except mine was much longer -- down to here.
and red as rust.
"my eyes were green like yours, and my nose
pointed like yours; everything like yours. and
although i have grown old, you remain what i was."
she recites one of her poems for me.
"ésta es dedicada a mi primer amor;
dondequiera está."
her voice is like lightning
and her tongue rolls like thunder --
the meaning; the sound
sweet as rain
she takes my hand
she tells me they're like ice
but it's so enunciated, it sounds like
"your hands are like jello"
and it makes me laugh
my cousin plays the guitar
and sings; he throws his head back
white teeth like polished rocks
in his open mouth
he looks a little like mick jagger
and he used to be mick jagger
when he played for the rolling clones
everyone sings along
to the songs he has written
and the melody
strikes a chord
i sit out back
with my sister, carrie
we dangle our feet in the cold swimming pool
we admire the white lights strung across the trees
and the artwork
the visual poetry
scattered like polished rocks across the desert lawn
this was your last gift --
a soul cure
real love's precious medicine --
an "i am there"
and a "here are you."
