My Mother Cooks
Our last supper together was arroz con pollo. There was
no wine. We had no disciples. It was only my mother
and me in the small kitchen. It pleased her to serve me one more time.
Election
On plywood walling off a stalled construction
site someone had scrawled: WHAT’S IT ALL WORTH
WITHOUT AN OPEN FREE AND FAIR ELECTION?
Holding Vigil
My cousin asks if I can describe this moment,
the heaviness of it, like sitting outside
the operating room while someone you love
is in surgery and you’re on those awful plastic chairs
eating flaming Doritos from the vending machine
A River Runs Through It
Not flows. Runs—watery
knees high, arms pumping,
breath steady and sure.
Not the whole river.
That would scare people.