To my friend who thinks poetry is lame

I wish you’d learn how to love a poem. That you may understand why I covet a copy of Sandra Cisneros' Loose Woman more than that pretty, frilly tangerine blouse you saw and pointed at,“That’ll suit you.”

~ 0 ~ 0 ~

Old Maids
My cousins and I,
we don't marry.
We're too old
by Mexican standards.
And the relatives
have long suspected
we can't anymore
in white.
My cousins and I,
we're all old
maids at thirty.
Who won't dress children,
and never saints--
though we undress them.
The aunts,
they've given up on us.
No longer nudge--You're next.
Instead--
What happened in your childhood?
What left you all mean teens?
Who hurt you, honey?
But we've studied
marriages too long--
Aunt Ariadne,
Tia Vashti,
Comadre Penelope,
querida Malintzin,
Senora Pumpkin Shell--
lessons that served us well.

You Bring Out the Mexican in Me
You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lagrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I'd let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

~ 0 ~ 0 ~

Both poems from Loose Woman by Sandra Cisneros