The Old Debate of Don Quixote vs Sancho Panza
The men in this family
are much stupider than the women, my large-armed uncle says.
But the women all go crazy.
They go crazy because they read books.
They write books.
They learn languages and go to artsy movies.
The men like to work, to do.
We are happy walking for hours into the woods to cut down a tree
or transporting boxes from one garage to another.
As long as there is something to carry, an object to touch
and exchange, we feel less alone in this universe and know our place.
We know how to play beach volleyball,
how to fix cars and airplanes,
how to enjoy the feel of the sun on our foreheads in the sweltering heat.
The women in this family
are never happy. Always thinking, thinking, thinking
about this and that, that and this,
they know only thoughts running in circles, circles,
until exhausted and dizzy.
The women are too smart for their own good.
The books worm out holes in their brains.
They are unhappy in every language they learn.
And so maybe the men in this family are much smarter than we think.
Big Paw
The cat’s paw keeps getting bigger.
Soon we will have to give it a name.
At the vet, the young receptionists all laugh.
Tell us it’s perfectly natural
though they haven’t seen
a single case like it.
We purchase pills, wrestle vitamins,
work cream after cream
into red skin.
The paw gets
bigger.
Our house gets smaller.
Tiny as a toothpick
in a club sandwich.
We can’t keep anything
safe. Last night, the paw swiped
our memories clean.
Tomorrow, it threatens
to x-ray the sky.
Her Old Shoes March to the Airport
The trip began with a declaration of independence.
We hold these truths to be self-evident:
freedom of press
right to assembly
pursuit of happiness.
The last time the heels clicked at attention
it had been 1992. Love had returned from the Gulf;
pink and fresh-faced.
Then back in the closet.
Suppressed with the knotted sweaters, scarves
of the last regime. Memory
like a scuff: who owned us last time?
We promised then not to forget.
Tongue-tied, out of the trenches of laces,
the track is set. Shoes take their vows:
Life never promised us straight lines.
Life never promised us pairs.
Three miles to go. Three miles to go.
The woman brews coffee, offers
her new lover a remote.:
Don’t push the red button.
It doesn’t work. She won’t notice
their absence until spring.
Stowed in the overhead, close quarters
arouse blush. These soles need
work,
they say to the man with a knife
crouched underneath.
Not to worry, he whispers.
I have an idea.
The War Has Taken the Muse Hostage
The war has taken the Muse hostage
and a return is unlikely
unless we are willing to cave in
to terrorist demands.
We know three things for certain:
The kidnapping occurred in broad daylight
under the umbrellas of the square where
market business and afternoon affairs went on as usual.
No witnesses have come forward.
No organizations have claimed responsibility.
I am sorry to report:
There is no embassy, citizens, at which
to lay your flowers.
The pace is killing me. Who could possibly withstand
the frequent surprises and failings of flesh?
My back and neck are stiff as statues. My feet
ache with each budding blister. Dizziness surrounds
and I fear I will go blind forever if I can’t
find a brief moment of peace. Forgive the weakness,
it is not as if I haven’t enjoyed the employment,
but for once I’d like to refuse the lust of the chase,
hold hands for the sake of it, share an old joke in silence
lay my lips against your chest as if it were my own
as if I had no intention of introducing myself
as if your body would keep still for a lifetime.
Gods, Though Gods, Are Conspicuous
I have been intimate with God.
God dons a pink nightgown to bed,
ruffles at the collar, chases two
white Aspirin with a martini and
ocean blue bubble bath; likes both
giving and receiving backrubs.
I have walked with God.
Like a disinterested hunter, God sniffs
lampposts and fire hydrants, straddles
curbs, nips at wayward feet, collects
tissues and cigarette butts, without
warning sometimes bolts at a crosswalk.
I have eaten with God.
Both in large elegant dining rooms or
leaning against breakfast bars, God uses
paper napkins, is adept with chopsticks,
has little patience for appetizers, but follows
the smell of fresh baked bread.
I have fought with God.
Out on the street, in front of the neighbours,
at the work place, the gym, the bathroom
supply store. If threatened, God will leave
an argument half-finished, pack up and
storm out, take his marbles back home.
I have died with God.
Not up on a hill, but here, on my porch,
with the baskets of rhododendrons, robins,
and the postman. We have all watched God
shamble along the street looking for his socks.
We have all hid them, deep, deep in our gardens.
A Divorce or Spanish Lessons
Do I want a divorce or Spanish lessons?
The question sways back and forth
like my heavy gym knapsack
between Catholic schoolgirls and tired immigrants
hauling deli meats and olive paste on the St. Clair West
streetcar island this hotter than usual spring.
Tax refunds recently received, it’s not unusual
to ponder one’s options:
Divorce: $300.
Spanish lessons: ten
for $280 plus tax and textbook.
The two posters hang beside each other on the fiberglass
like crosses on the other side of Jesus and we
must make our pick before all ten numbers have been chipped
off the block.
Today, divorces are more popular than linguists.
Cheap and easy. Ring a buzzer. Sign a page.
Does it cost more if children are involved?
The sign doesn’t say.
Still, some mornings Spanish lessons lead the way.
Though in our neighborhood it would be progress
if we all could at least agree to say please and thank you,
to cover mouths when coughing, to ease women
with children onto the transit.
The heat beats down on my back and pulls at the sneakers,
shampoo and water bottles. I know I am a privileged member
of society: university professor, happy cohabitator, home owner.
My days are not spent shuffling up and down the street
looking for bargains on meat or bathroom tissue.
Like a watched pot, the laneway contrives against movement,
against decision. I’ve never witnessed anyone jot down
the number, or even point at the yellow and red signs.
But, of course, they must exist.
And maybe all our decisions are equally as daunting and arbitrary.
Where to live, who to love, what profession to call one’s own.
We too are likely nothing more than flimsy pieces of paper, advertising
something-or-other you might think a good idea today or tomorrow
or the next day or forget as easily as I will forget you and you, my posters,
my neighbors, though I feign interest in you for now,
for you suit my purpose and I don’t have to pay you,
only the streetcar conductor who takes my fare and says move on,
move on, to the back.
My Uncle Holds My Grandmother’s Purse
My uncle feels no shame; or at least this is my impression of him.
He says people talk too much, and as long as he doesn’t have to speak,
nothing is a humiliation.
I must learn from him: I prize words too much,
as if they actually mean, as if a word ever fed a belly,
softened a callous or sewed a ghost back to its flesh.
Blunt; I could crack coconuts on my uncle’s forehead
and he would probably just laugh
and say, now you have gone
crazy like all the others, like a true Brazilian.
And I’d have to say, Uncle, let’s not talk, let’s just
butt
heads for an hour and
then run to
standing here in his shopping mall, following his wife and kid
telling me a wife and kids is no good. He feels no shame
telling his mother, you crazy, then holding her purse,
no shame when he tells me you will die of cancer.
Yet, it’s with him I feel like walking in this mall, skipping up
and down escalator steps, imagining the world
my uncle describes, you can never
have too much
happiness or too much silence.
Sales girls, mannequins,
ATM machines, all speak another language.
My uncle doesn’t listen.
He says, it’s a choice; you don’t have to listen.
No one’s ever forcing
us to listen.
I am listening to him.
Why, I wonder, is he listening to me?