Fall 2009

For Elsa

by Amy Small-McKinney

 

           1

            Learning a House

Moved into six months before. 
The house in the woods.
The swing set.  The couch.
The Barn Owl.  At night,
we listened.  I learned plantains.
I learned sugar and salt.  To become
a feather.  To drift away.

 

            2
           
            Learning a New Language

I promised my brother
I would return:  I would draw
circles with his daughter.
Water drawn from a child’s well.
At night, I would rock her,
learn: Dios te salve, María.
Name the Owl, then sing to him.
What I learned: Love her.

 

            3

            How Mamacita Looked

She was desert.
Her breasts, disappearing.
Her face: nose and teeth and sockets. 
Her mouth, disappearing.
One grunt for ice, another for daughter.

 

           4
           
            The Child and I Drive Away

Years of revolt, then my brother
asked for a Rabbi.
The sisters: Por favor Dios.
That night, I wrapped her foo foo
and blanket into the ballet bag,
tried not to wake her.  I did. 
We drove to Uncle Steve’s.
Mamacita didn’t die until morning.

           
            5
           
            Traditions of Stones

I want to talk about stones.  Stones
do decay, but with elegance, belief. 
Then I would have to talk about the pit,
how each stone tossed in was a heart. 
One became snow.
The stone made me cry, I remembered
New Year’s.  She asked me to sing.
It was too late—for stone or song.
The world was parched.
Who will grill the dry, green plantains?
Each morning, in Boyacá, my mother
carted bowls to the well.
The well followed Miriam home, damn it.