letter to sarah
the wind comes claiming again
its right of way through the valley
and i’m sitting in the field of vines
where as a child i chased wasps.
my large nostrils are full of dust
and the smell of grapes.
i am explaining you to the peach moon
that hangs there low and listening,
but my mouth merely hangs open
and I find i don’t know enough
to explain anything. i have only
a memory resting in my gut like
a tear already fallen from the face.
From The Iceworker Sings (Bilingual Press, 1999). The Institute for Latino Studies at the University of Notre Dame would like to thank Bilingual Press for permission to post these poems.
