takoma park, maryland
the neighbor's yard
is like a convention of jornaleros:
a range of heights and minds
from chihuahua to honduras,
making sterile suburban plots
into miniature edens, working around signs
that proclaim liberal affiliations.
miguel's rake is a conqueror's sword,
slashing away stubborn peaks of leaves
that cling to the earth like
a child holding onto her mother.
venancio yawns furtively,
his hoe mingles with the hacking cough of a lawn mower,
the scent of dusty gasoline
as antonio makes boulevards of cut grass
straighter than a comet's path through the heavens.
juanito stops for a flash of water,
for him, the wind is a mournful ranchero, the air of tasajo
giving meat to oaxacan nights,
holding the hands of his fresh bride
as they are showered by a storm of roses.
federico maneuvers with a pair of rusty clippers,
trims the delicate scalps of hedges
with the skill of a veteran barber.
he takes a moment to recall a woman,
face grizzled into a tortilla smile,
lying on her back on the desert floor.
the coyote said that they should leave her
for the vultures and la migra, because no hay tiempo
to hold a makeshift funeral
inside a tabernacle of saguaros.
the neighbor's yard
is like a convention of jornaleros:
a range of heights and minds
from chihuahua to honduras,
speaking the secret language of botany
wearing ripped up major-league hats
and sharing the subtlest
of smiles.
