En este Dia de
las Madres pienso en todas las madres. I
think of all mothers and how they differ.
There are some women who became mothers by accident. There are other mothers who planned and
dreamed of becoming a mother but never did due to various circumstances. There are women who became mothers to other
mothers’ children. There are very happy
mothers, some not so happy, and other mothers who struggle with mothering every
day. To all kinds of mothers, I honor
you with three poems. These poems are not
Hallmark Card fluff and pithy sayings. I
chose them for their honesty, for the reality of life and love they bring to us. Here are Mother’s Day gifts:
This first poem
is by Rosemary Catacalos. She is the
2013 Poet Laureate of Texas and this poem, “A Vision of La Llorona” is from her
collection, Again For the First Time which received the Texas Institute
of Letters Poetry Prize.
A Vision of La Llorona
for
G.
I see your
mother every week
now that you’re
gone.
Sometimes she
knows me
and remembers to
be polite.
But other times
her eyes,
so like your
eyes,
are already on
the loose, already prowling
by the time she
gets to me.
Today your
father was with her,
but she’s not
looking for him either.
She follows her
eyes, so like your eyes,
all through the
town,
turning their
consuming blue
on the winos in
football jerseys
and
urine-stained pants,
the old women who
can’t step up curbs.
She follows her
eyes so like your eyes
into taco shops
and libraries and bars,
scrutinizes the
old men shooting the breeze
and killing time
on Main Plaza,
even peers under
the skirts
of Our Lady of
Grace and Our Lady of Sorrows.
She is alert to
the possibility
of
disguises. She examines everyone
with even a hint
of a wing,
sometimes
sneaking up from behind
and grabbing
their shoulders,
feeling for the
supernatural bone
that resembles
her own,
the telltale
sign of flying.
Then she’s deep
in their faces,
the faces of all
the fliers,
looking for her
lost mirror,
the only water
with the right reflection,
looking for her
same eyes staring back at her,
looking for the
only power
that since the
day you were born
matches her own.
Your mother,
looking for the blood
that will never
dry,
her only
son.
This second poem
is by Ramón Garcia. The poem, “Acapulco
1965” is from his poetry collection, Other Countries.
Acapulco 1965
Here is Mom,
wearing a one-piece bathing suit
and Dad next to
her
with his arm
around her shoulder,
looking like
they never will again—
she with Dolores
Del Rio hair
and he with the
Elvis Presley pompadour and dark sunglasses.
It is their luna
de miel, Acapulco 1965, and they are
on the beach,
smiling, the ocean in black and white behind them.
Is Mom a virgin
still or is this the day after?
Do they love
each other? And how?
What are they
thinking? What dreams do they share?
They do not know
of trailers in Modesto, the feel of peach fuzz on the skin
and the hot
fields, flat and heavy across Central Valley afternoons.
The
fruit-picking and the canneries would come later,
after Dad
continues his card-playing
and his father
sends him and his new wife al norte.
They are as I’ve
never
seen them or
imagined them to be.
Did they kiss
back then?
Did they like
each other’s company? Were they content?
In that other
country? In that other life?
And what of the
losses and the gains?
Of the Mexican
children who never turned out as planned?
 |
This last poem,
“Mamá Azúcar” is by Olga García Echeverría, who also writes for La Bloga. She shares Sunday postings with me. This poem is from her collection, Falling Angels: cuentos y poemas.
Mamá
Azúcar
It really wasn’t
her name but
everyone in the
building
called her Mamá
Azúcar
Turo the donut
man said
it was cuz when
she put out
she was all
brown sugar spilling
over like hot
pilloncillo syrup
Too much of that’ll make you sick
he’d say and the
men would open
their bocas in
laughter agreeing
Sí sí sick make you sick
Her real name
was Panchita
given in the
spirit of revolution
after Pancho
Villa
or at least
that’s how she told it
¡Yo soy toda revolución!
See these big chichis here?
Son como las tierras de México
everyone has either had or wanted them
Son de todos y de nadie.
She didn’t mind
though
being called
Mamá Azúcar
As long as they
don’t start
calling me
Panocha she’d say
throwing back
her head full of black hair
laughing a
carcajadas
Sara and me
would laugh with her
thick lips red
as mami’s chile Colorado
eyes masked in
dark hues
We wanted to be
just like
her—toda mujer
the kind of
woman who owned
the space she
walked on
a full-moon
dark-as-tamarind-seeds woman
redonda and soft
at even the elbows and edges
Simón would
catch us admiring her
from behind the
stairwells and warn
Solamente hay dos tipos de mujeres
the kind you marry
and the kind you find in the streets
floating round like filfth
Miren a esa desgraciada del apartamento
13
She’s one big revolving door
todo mundo entra y sale
entra
y sale
Si no se cuidan muchachas you’ll end up
panzonas
Si no se cuidan you’ll end up like her
Didn’t matter
what Simón
or anybody else
said
Mamá Azúcar was
the only woman
in the building
who didn’t have a man
yelling at her
who woke up singing
the loud sounds
of Celia Cruz
Tito Puente
Mongo Santamaría
blaring out her
windows
She was the only
woman
who didn’t have
baby on hips
who came and
went as she pleased
who flipped men
in and out of her life
like flipping
tortillas on a hot comal
She was all
sugar alright
but not the
piloncillo type like Turo said
She was more
like the center of ripe guava
the tiny seeds
dancing
on our young
hungry tongues
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