El Botijo *
hung on metal rungs
of the open staircase
between flower beds and the terrace.
In its nipple a polished piece of wood,
a crocheted cap over its open mouth,
like the one I imagine Red Ridding Hood’s
grandmother, and later on, the wolf, wore.
Gatekeepers stopping ants’ invasions.
Dad insisted on being high
to catch the breeze kissing pines
under obligatory penumbra.
Friends, day time thieves, drank
freshness no refrigerators could match.
Returning from our hunting expeditions
to the forbidden mill by the river,
we tasted, between hiccups, flavors
borrowed from minerals in its clay,
our cheeks burning flashing red.
At night, we abandoned beds,
left flashlights aside, rose quietly
from sheets as Lazarus in Palestine,
tongues dry from so much talking
thirsting for water hung al fresco.
I don’t know who speaks botijo’s language
anymore, who disdains bottled water,
how people quench millennium cravings,
how the soul repairs dehydration
brought by lusting after what’s not essential.
In my Los Angeles home, a reproduction
from XV century “botijo
de cerámica de reflejos metálicos,”
sits pretty on top a book shelf, blue from cobaltum,
silver from argentum, golden from cuprum.
A colorful cherished gift, but it’s not for drinking,
and it’s not for healing.
* Earthenware drinking jug with spout and
handle
La Vida Es Sueño
To Calderón de la Barca
I listen to rain drumming
roof tiles sounding close to maracas
than baked clay slabs. Rhythm
grabs my fingers tapping tables
as I walk through living, kitchen,
think of preparing dinner for
my beloved gay and jumping
is the music playing on his hair
gray as this morning’s clouds,
a peaceful man innocent of
astrologic charts, still, soul aglow
with astral mystery, tender manners,
mouth a tunnel filled with mischief,
a harp he plays at night as I gaze at
the phases of the moon shinning
on the gazelle on my forehead.
Willows swing with wind and joy,
spring walks in my direction wet
but steady, a Moses full of promise
not just for himself but all people.
Buds stretch their necks forward
blooming open like doors drunk
with color and their own perfume.
I don’t want it to end, this concert
of singing bees, laughing water drops
parading on the fields, lifting knees,
of soil to check underneath skirts
unknown to their transparent selves.
I pretend my dream will last eternally,
that we will always dance at Carnaval
but at night I go to sleep with fear
of never waking up.
Mallards and Planets
It’s the middle of winter
a couple of Mallards sun up
by the pond outside water
reflecting weeping willows,
the male’s brilliant neck feathers
dazzles his brown companion
folding her wings in adoration.
You look so stunning I forget
a retrograde mayhem lurking
over the week. Saturn, king
of discipline and structure joins
other retrograde planets.
It’s an optical illusion, of course,
due to the earth’s rotation,
and were we aware of its speed
we’d be dizzy kites in the wind.
The ducks move towards each other
in convivial silence. Air plump
with trees and mountain shadows
glides over the soft rippled water.
I wonder about the incoming mayhem
of your hot temper, need for control,
backwards-moving planets power
to affect your moods, but now,
we are simply two Mallards
seeking warmth, though in this case
you, the female, are the most beautiful.
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