Mujer, it took me ten years to
recognize you.
One decade of your sorrow flooding
the back of my brain
growing more deliberate with every
Spring,
when daily I paced Buffalo Bayou,
watched water lilies lift in its
sweep & flow;
each time I thought I heard
children crying.
Juana Leija, weeping woman, when
you were a girl
in Laredo, las viudas en vestidos
negros
spoke of men who strayed, took off
in the night,
leaving washed out wives &
fatherless children;
or worse, hissed tales of those
who always returned:
angry men who used their fists to
no resistance.
But sometimes they were found face
down in the river
or across breakfast tables; their
overturned cups
of cafe con leche taken quickly,
washed out thoroughly,
to eliminate any lingering of
Oleander.
Pero, there were no brujas for you
once you made the trip North;
only telenovelas & daily
beatings,
your seven children tienen siempre
hambre.
Llorona, I know that you cross
yourself
when you step across that bridge
embankment bordering the bayou,
kneel when you drop your babies
down into its water.
Madre de Mil Tristes, Dama de Los
Niņos Perdidos,
I know the terrible lifting of
their arms,
that they float only for a moment,
then drift away.
I know how their darkening hair
flows
when the current sweeps them
under.
(The Houston
Press)