We've eaten five times. And killed a lot of flies.
Pepper tree leaves glide on the wind
that brought them. And Sra. Suarez
glides through two layers of soil:
minutes fly off the windshield at her
grown children. And moments fly off
her shy limbs, as a bride. Always
there will be this in-between time
she is waiting through. She glided
onto her dirt floor. We left her,
and left a candle on our refrigerator.
She feels a shy hillside in her
open, into a pepper tree
odor. Each leaf has
a little cold light in it.
And here she is.
(1987)
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