Woodstove of My Childhood

woodstove of my childhood

where potatoes cut like triangle chips were fried

in manteca de marrano

woodstove of lazy autumn smoke swirling away

to nowhere

woodstove of December

evacuating the cold chill at sunrise

woodstove of celebration and mourning

of post-World War II Korea y Vietnam

woodstove corner that kept vigil over

drunken nodding remembrance

woodstove corner where uncles primos compadres

gathered on visits from Califas

woodstove corner with a warm ear for nostalgia

where Mama Ane stirred the atole and wrung her hands

thumb over thumb praying for her children's children's children

woodstove that witnessed six decades washing its face at the vandeja

that saw western swing dancing in dim lantern flame

that watched Elvis come in from across the llano strumming

a mail-order Stella and singing in Spanish

woodstove

of the feast lamb tied up under the crabapple tree

of early sour cherries ripening above the cornstalk horizon

of neighbors bartering a cup of sugar

in exchange for mitote and conversation

woodstove of rain tenderly pouring into the afternoon

and salt sprinkling onto the patio from the mouth of the porch

woodstove of the nighttime crackling softly

of harmonious harmonica medleys

blowing before bedtime prayer

woodstove facing John F. Kennedy's

picture on the wall

woodstove of Protestant Sundays

ringing without bells

woodstove of dark earth

fat worms and acequias

woodstove of 1960s propaganda

and all the rich hippies knocking poorly at the screen door

woodstove of private crazy laughter

of woodpeckers pecking through rough-hewn

barn timbers only to meet the sky

of rabbits nervously nibbling evening away

in the arroyo

of the water bucket banging and splashing

all the way home

woodstove of the water drop sizzle

of buñuelos and biscochitos and flour on the chin

of chokecherry jam dropping out

from the end of a tortilla

woodstove

that heard Mentorcito's violin bringing in the new year

that saw Tío Eliseo bring in an armload of wood

that heard Tío Antonio coming down the road

whistling a corrido and swinging his cane

woodstove of the blessed noontime

and Grandma Juanita heating up the caldito

woodstove of the sanctified and untamed holy spirit

of the dream awake dreamers

prophesizing in the beginning how the end would come

of creaking trochil gates left open forever

of twisted caved-in gallineros rocking

in weeping April wind

of abandoned orchards waist deep

in desánimo

of teardrops that held back the laughter

of the penitente procession moving through the hills

for the soul of the village

woodstove of the wounded faithful proudly

concealing their scars

woodstove of armpit farts and bedtime giggles

of pitchforks and axes under the bed in case of intruders

of coffee cans filled with everything but coffee

of ten cents for a cream soda at Corrina's

of strawberry Nehis and a bag of chili chips at Medina's

of a handful of bubble gum acá Santos's

woodstove of genius wisdom dressed up as the village idiot

of hand-me-down stories locked away

in the dispensa

of bien loco local heroes cracking homeruns

Saturday afternoons en la cañada

woodstove

of all that and more of all that disappearing

as children played hide 'n' seek in that abandoned goodtime feeling

while stumbling on the footsteps of tradition

woodstove that heard the fall of a people rising in silence

that died of a loneliness without cure

that cured itself in the company

of the so many more lonely

woodstove of my childhood

Poems on Immigration