Two Poems

Marital Ode

He says to believe in our future
we’re in the room he can afford for now.
He counts money.
There are scratches in his face, the drawings,
of his whereabouts the night before.
Un cuento, while I slept, while I vanished
behind fantasies.
He counts once, and again; and then again
a third time, lifting his head in my direction
bills go into the pillow case.
His naked torso with signs of law-bending,
on his cheeks permanent marks
of teenage acne.
I don’t know much of him, but this dance
of fingers—
Another life happens outside; but here
some wild beast is devouring the future.
I stand where two windows dip the same sun.
Love, he calls, but all I hear is life.

El Alimento de el Amo

Grandmother, they called you the oldest woman in town.
People guessed a death-date, mil novecientos ochenta the latest.
In the cast iron molino’s mouth
you made masa for tamales—
for sale—
Weighing yellow kernels by hand
the Indian gold you squeezed in to patties
filled with every part of the chicken.
You made them para el amo,
your right arm wheeling the pewter handle
fossilized fingers hurting
light dying in your pterygium-impaired eyes.
Your gift for the town’s feast
Your best offer to God.
Better than a veladora or paper flowers,
food for The Amo.
Chickens new their part before
they got chased by dogs,
they ran, head wobbling.
You left no recipes
only the verbal documentary.
La comida de el Amo
La comida de el Amo