Cinderella losing
a shoe, God walking in garden, a
Pegasus in the sky pushing cotton
ball clouds, journeys to the bottom
of the sea, young boys chasing down
glory, and clocks with blind delight
relaxing the forward march of time.
in her aged imagination the entire world
is no more than a miniature country, a
lonely dwelling, the fading earth, a thing
meant to be vaguely understood. the seasons
speak to her now in long sentences that last
well into the night, they forget sometimes
to smile at her, but unafraid of all this change
the old woman simply waits for the future
always in the quiet room reaching for simple
plans and the warmth of light.
The Apartment Visit
the last time I visited Carmen
she said the neighbors upstairs
are stealing her mail. some nights
she imagines they are standing just
outside her apartment door casting
spells to turn her hours into ice cold
stone. when you walk by her door
on the third floor of the building it’s
easy to hear her talking to her dead
son about the days they use to go out
dancing in the Bronx clubs Tito Puente
played, the aluminum Christmas tree
they would put up each year with a
rainbow colored spot light shining in
a dark living room on it, the trips to
Orchard Beach to stand looking over
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