Thankful Thursday: In a pause
A friend emails me a poem each week, along with a one-page background on the poet, which she researches and writes. She's not a poet (she says) but she appreciates poetry.
She sends a mixed bag of poets I know and don't. This week a Latino poet. Last month a New Zealander. I'm always learning.
I know there are organizations that provide this same service, but I like thinking of this one person — whom I've met only once and briefly — each week thoughtfully choosing a poem and sharing its story with me and others. I like that one poem, lovingly shared by one person, can tie us all together in a poetic pause.
Thank you Vicki.
This Week's Poem (No. 382):
In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes
in a Tex-Mex restaurant. His co-workers,
unable to utter his name, renamed him Jalapeño.
If I ask for a goldfish, he spits a glob of phlegm
into a jar of water. The silver letters
on his black belt spell Sangrón. Once, borracho,
at dinner, he said: Jesus wasn’t a snowman.
Arriba Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed
into a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.
Frijolero. Greaser. In Tucson he branded
cattle. He slept in a stable. The horse blankets
oddly fragrant: wood smoke, lilac. He’s an illegal.
I’m an Illegal-American. Once, in a grove
of saguaro, at dusk, I slept next to him. I woke
with his thumb in my mouth. ¿No qué no
tronabas, pistolita? He learned English
by listening to the radio. The first four words
he memorized: In God We Trust. The fifth:
Percolate. Again and again I borrow his clothes.
He calls me Scarecrow. In Oregon he picked apples.
Braeburn. Jonagold. Cameo. Nightly,
to entertain his cuates, around a campfire,
he strummed a guitarra, sang corridos. Arriba
Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed into
a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.
Greaser. Beaner. Once, borracho, at breakfast,
he said: The heart can only be broken
once, like a window. ¡No mames! His favorite
belt buckle: an águila perched on a nopal.
If he laughs out loud, his hands tremble.
Bugs Bunny wants to deport him. César Chávez
wants to deport him. When I walk through
the desert, I wear his shirt. The gaze of the moon
stitches the buttons of his shirt to my skin.
The snake hisses. The snake is torn.
It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places, things (and poems). Joy contracts and expands in proportion to our gratitude. What makes your world expand?
Thursday, August 30, 2012 at 8:35AM
Reader Comments (9)
Ooof. I'm having one of *those* days. What better time to remind myself about the great things in life?
1. Friends, both old and new
2. Discovering a band I'd never heard before, and having their music rock my world (this week: The Avett Brothers, and their album I and Love and You)
3. Travel plans coalescing
4. Finishing a piece of writing and knowing I have not only done great work, but pushed my creative boundaries in the process
5. Getting to see one of my favorite stand-up comedians (Jackie Kashain) live, and then after the show being able to tell her how much I enjoy her work.
Corral will be part of the Folger reading series this fall/spring. I'll be posting about it on Monday.
Wonderful poem!
Maureen - That'll be a great reading. I'll look to your blog post for details.
Allyson - Thank you for thanking. : )
Wow, powerful poem!
Yes, isn't it a great piece?! Until Vicki sent this poem, I'd not read any of Corral's work -- and now I am eager to read more.
He's great---I love this poem (I recently read it somewhere--was it in Poetry?).
What a nice tradition with you and your friend.
Hi Hannah -
Yes, according to Vicki's thorough notes, this poem was in the April edition of Poetry. You have a good eye/ear/memory.
--- Awesomeness. We all need a Vicki in our lives.
Well said, Trish. ( I just now -- months late -- discovered your comment). thxs!