Ruante

I stumble on treasure: a Latina street-comber
who smiles when I ask for a cigarette.
She’s been waiting for a voice like mine;
in the envelope of graffiti our hands clutch.
“Lips blossom on generous people,” she says,
“so if it’s ok, I’ll paint you here—”
my car broken down, left for scurrying vultures
where angels swirl spray paint. Beneath
a blue, schizophrenic sky-line, Jesus flaunts himself
effectively. Buildings flare up with war paint:
red swords hitting pavement
as she befriends a suit lost in the barrio.
Landlords will pale in the faces of her designs.
So she walks me to familiar land beyond
an eight-lane expressway. Halfway home, I part
with Paloma—who then paints me to flow safely
through speeding cars…

Double Portrait

I awake
on sun-blasted Kansas playground,
in the swing of tornado season. My last
day of grade school, and Mrs. Peabody praises
my continuing growth:
Make her mine I pray to St. Brigid (who baptized
our ancestors). Soon we’ll be herded
to crouch against walls.
Our heads will be buried between our knees:
crash position. I envy
each piece of slick trash—
tumbleweed in the pulsing hot air.

I stare at a cool distance
as her legs embrace the ocean in Ireland.
Another woman: Heavenly God!
Wanting more—orchids, volcanoes,
I’m an artist or scientist electrified
by prairie gusts, the fiery hair
leaping from her head.