The Trim

They come to her.

In trucks.

Ropes, ladders, chainsaws.

In boots and uniforms and masks

and baseball caps.

and

they

cut

her down.

Strip her,

to her bark.

They rob me of her shade. 

Suddenly,

I can see

everything,

outside of my window. 

And I feel exposed.

And sad. 

But this morning.

I sat at my desk,

bay windows wide open,

curtains thrown back,

and she greets me,

with bushy blooming,

wild patches of new pines,

and she whispers,

“aquí estoy mujer,

siempre, estoy aquí,
siempre renazco..."

Cora at Burke Williams

Burke Williams in West Hollywood.

Face down,

on the massage table. 

Breathing in,

my life,

and all of my new millennium decisions.

Este lujo,  

so far from your motherland,

and the dirt floor,

of a remote ranch,

in the Nayarit jungle. 

When I turn over,

I see your face,

your brown face,

eight years-old,

matted black hair,

tussled on top,

rugged braids hanging to the side,

thick lips,

and your eyes,

intently hovering over me. 

And then you were gone! 

The massage therapist asks me

to take a deep breath in,

I do,

and then I breathe out,

wondering,

why you appeared to me.

Como te extraño.