and so is the wind
and so are the oleanders
the wind is bothering.
The porch light is no longer
anything but Mexican.
It’s true; tonight
is full of this miracle.
The river
is finally Mexican and
the house we live in, the bar
at the corner and the rocks
in the yard. The car is Mexican,
the highway, the gas tank,
your shoes. Mexican
as the stoplight, the cat
skittling across the yard,
as the 7-11 and the father
you thought had forgotten.
What isn’t Mexican,
here, my love, tonight?
All thinking has turned
Mexican and don’t forget the cops
and the bodies of
Wal-Mart shoppers—all
of them, I am pleased to announce,
are Mexican. Tonight, how
do you pay your bills?
In Mexican.
How did you hurt
your hand? Mexican.
What did you say?
How do I love you?
Mexican. Mexican.
Weekly Poem: Tonight the Moon is Mexican
December 06, 2013
This piece was written by:
Connie Voisine is the author of Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream, published by University of Chicago Press, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Award. Voisine teaches in the creative writing program at NMSU and also coordinates La Sociedad para las Artes, its outreach organization. She and her family have recently returned from Belfast, Northern Ireland, where she was a Fulbright Fellow in the School of English at Queen’s University.
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