poetry

MAMERTA
Rhona Mae Andrews

I SAW you again last night
Your hair, grey-streaked
pulled so neatly in a bun
and the furrowed face still beautiful
against the morning sun

You were standing by
the clothesline
Spine showing all those years
of washing and cleaning
the stains of those you love,
and ironing the creases
of those who have forgotten to love you

Fresh detergent wafted in the air
The sky, a cloudless blue
and the bitter July is almost through

You said something to me
but I could only hear the
voices of acacia trees
in the front yard,
and the gurgling pot
of champorado in your kitchen

The church bells rang at five thirty,
babbling like ghosts in my head
I was running home from school
past the candy stores
and the blind beggar in the street,
ignoring the cadena de amours
weeping on my feet

You were sitting on the stairstep
as if waiting for me
I was running towards you
But somehow
you disappeared

silently
effaced by the wind

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