Regalos Para El Dia de las Madres: Poems for Mother's Day

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