this guy is talking to me and I'm writing a poem in my head not listening at all open like a flower with artist written in the center in bubble letters wishing to bloom at night in Portugal
the million times bleached hair and too much eyeliner of the woman
but they were both wearing head to toe purple and white tie dye outfits
and bright white sneakers
the little girl in the bathroom with a babydoll in her drawstring backpack
just the head sticking out with the drawstrings cinched around the baby doll’s neck
hanging ridiculously off the little girls back
almost as big as her
if that were a real baby how scary
it’s big head threatening to be whacked by something or fall to the floor
the beautiful woman with the tiny baby girl
sitting on the floor near the window
telling her baby fiercely no! stop that! no!
when she cries
you're being a brat, you know better than this!
she’s in the seat in front of me on the plane
cursing and nursing
Las Cruces
sitting in grandma's back yard in the morning
after the rain the air smells like tea
the Russian sage with its purple blossoms made into a tincture
the wind chimes ring out holy
reflecting in the shiny puddles in the clean flat cement of the patio
as I help her prune and trellis her roses
she tells me about stealing vats of blood
from the hospital for her plants
and she had the biggest roses in town
the big man who everyone was scared of in solitary so they didn't give him his meds
she had his cell cleaned and helped get what he needed
till he was well enough to stand in the med line with everyone else
then she went away for a couple weeks on vacation and nobody helped him get his meds he fell into disrepair withdrawing into himself even more than before my grandma met him
the man who was stabbed in the pen and died because he was too skinny
they hit the vena kava by mistake
the Downs race track where grandpa worked
he was in coaching jockeys, gambling, and drug dealing
