Javier Zamora

 

 

Since Last We Spoke 
after Abuelita

Across the bean field 
we have bulls, silent as grass, 
silent as your calls. My sheets 
don’t smell of kerosene 
anymore. Thank you 
for the stove, lamps,
re-fri-ge-ra-tor, oh 
and the TV. I shoveled 
the dirt myself when 
we turned our icebox 
into pots. I planted 
the peace lilies 
and fancy-leaf caladiums 
you like. Dandelions 
rule the cornfields. It’s how 
the bulls get fat. 

¿Remember Doña Chita? 
She had the biggest 
procession to her tomb, 
but I didn’t go. 
Talk louder, mija, 
my ears are turning low. 
You know, I still see you 
with your backpack 
getting in that van, 
not looking back. 
I hear it’s snowing 
like never before, 
year-round. The cashew 
and platano trees miss you—
Oh, and your sister 
works at the clinic. 
She borrows your blazers, 
she’s a secretary, says 
she’ll never leave me.