The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review
littlereview

Poem for Tuesday and Snowy Evening


Maine Yet Miami
By Richard Blanco

The soft harp of snowfall plucking through
my pine trees lulls me to peace, yet I still
hear the bongo of thunderstorms rapping
the rooftop of my queer childhood, dancing
to the clouds’ rage, raining away my sorrows.
Though snow melts silently into the gurgles
of my creek, my grandmother’s voice remains
frozen in my ears, still calling me a sissy, yet
praising me as her best friend. Even though
I marvel over spring’s abracadabra each time
my lilac blooms appear, I still disappear back
into the magic of summer nights on the porch,
the moon lighting up my grandfather’s stories
about his lost Cuba, his words carried away
with the smoke of his tabaco and the scent
of his jasmine tree flowering the night with
its tiny, perfumed stars. Despite the daystars
peeking behind the lavender clouds swaddling
mountain peaks in my window at sunset, I still
rise to the sun of my youth over the sea, after
a night’s sleep on a bed of sand, dreaming or
dreading who I would, or wouldn’t become.
Though I grew courageous enough to marry
a man who can only love me in his English:
darling, sweetheart, honey, I love him back
more in my Spanish whispered in his ears as
he sleeps: amorcito, tesoro, ceilo. After all
the meatloafs and apple pies we’ve baked
in our kitchen, I still sit down to the memory
of my mother’s table, savoring the loss of her
onion-smothered vaca frita and creamy flan.
No matter how tastefully my throw pillows
perfectly match my chic rugs and the stylish
art on my walls, it all falls apart sometimes,
just as I do, until I remember to be the boy
I was, always should be, playing alone with
his Legos in the family room, still enchanted
by the joy of his sheer self and his creations:
perfect or not, beautiful or not, immortal or
as mortal as the plentiful life I’ve made here,
although I keep living with my father dying
in our old house, his head cradled in my hand
for a sip of tea and a kiss on his forehead—
our last goodbye in the home that still lives
within this home where I live on to die, too.

--------

We had a forecast of snow for Monday afternoon, so we took our walk around the neighborhood right after lunch in anticipation of that and otherwise had a quiet day of laundry, chores, and work. We had lots of birds on our deck the whole chilly day -- we wondered whether they knew the snow was coming, too. And we had chick'n cordon bleu for dinner.

After this week's Antiques Roadshow, we watched the season premiere of Snowpiercer, which was awesome -- Jennifer Connelly and Sean Bean facing off while Daveed Diggs tries to hold everyone's shit together. Then we watched the Batwoman we missed Sunday, decently acted but the writing is so mediocre. Here's how pretty things were this evening:

2021-01-25 19.56.39A

2021-01-25 19.32.55

2021-01-25 19.32.20

2021-01-25 19.32.46

2021-01-25 19.33.37
</center>
Subscribe

  • Poem for Wednesday and Relaxing Cats

    Field in Spring By Susan Stewart Your eye moving left to right across the plowed lines looking to touch down on the first shoots coming up like…

  • Poem for Tuesday and 2004 Cicadas

    Cicadas at the End of Summer By Martin Walls Whine as though a pine tree is bowing a broken violin, As though a bandsaw cleaves a thousand thin…

  • Greetings from Gaithersburg

    Paul made me eggs and "bacon" for Mother's Day brunch, then we went to Lake Whetstone to see the goslings before they turn into geese. It was a…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

  • 0 comments