In one more hour, it will be election day, again, and I don’t want to know,
in the living room, the red lamp, with a broken shade, the light is on,
because on the other side of the door, in the chapel
the boys are sleeping,
little, little boys, whom I love,
Juan Carlos, also known as Juan Jose, because he was born on the night before christmas,
and his little, little brothe, Juan, too, Juan Casimiro.
They are sleeping on beds, with blankets, and sheets, and pillows, and their faces were dirty, even after I washed them.
They missed the last bus back to Primavera,
and now their showshine boxes sit in the empty courtyard, flooded with strange shadow making moonlight.
Attilio fixed Jose’s box, yesterday, with a couple of screws, and the tin lid from a black bean can, and my knife, because I don’t own a screwdriver.
Attilio, from Italy, who boiled more pasta tonight than he has ever seen in his 27 years, on the woodstove,
with the wood that Mario brought me, and Jose moved from the front of the house, to the back kitchen, then he helped me mop,
and then made four puzzles in a row, while I peeled roasted red peppers in the other kitchen,
the ones that Attilio and I had roasted last night, on a fogata,
not a ceremonial, but damn well sacred anyway, in the courtyard, that is now, at last, empty.
My feet ache. I haven’t sat down in three days . . . lay down, to sleep, yes, and stand up to stir, and to chop.
Maco, whom I love most dearly, is sad.
They are all sad, all 35 cousins and tias, because Abuela Andrea died this week, on the day before All Saint’s Day, and they all went up north again,
and there was nowhere to sleep, and everything was so odd,
. . . and that day, I missed my mother so much I thought I was going to die,
and the cemetary, where she is not buried, was a like a moon scape to me,
and I looked for Maco’s father, but no luck, and later,
Maco told me, we never had money to put up a marker,
but he’s there, we’ll go later and clean his grave.
Dona Aurita comes and helps me buy 20 pounds of tomatoes, and 30 carrots and 5 cabbages, and 5 pounds of onions, and garlic, and other things, and we carry them back to the house,
but she’s too sad to stay for tea, and tonight she didn’t come at all, with her sisters, the tias, to help me chop, because her heart is breaking, and I know, it comes and goes.
But these days have been like that,
lining up to tell me about love, and drowning,
Herlinda and her children, Isabel and her sister, don Lupe, and Dolores, Lencho, and always, o
the boys from Primavera, and their boxes, and their hunger, and their, black, forever hands . . .
Choche, and Vale, whom I love,
and then Betzy, whom I love, and the whole gang, the kids from the peach church down the way,
and we cook, for three days, for them.
And even the doctors come across the street to the party, to eat, and to share, with us, in their matching pantsuits, they work so hard.
But now I can’t find my glasses, so I write with my eyes closed, my head aches, and tomorrow, the elections, and tonight, the orphan boys sleep
in the chapel, and their boxes shine in the courtyard, where Attilio fixed on the little moon.
