WRITINGS BY: Mukethe Kawinzi
Rio Grande Morning
I muddy bare feet in search of lemon trees among dawn’s forest-music,
breathe the uu uu of truant owls, the pío pío of just-woken baby chicks,
breeze through the compound in a half-asleep haze,
float through the cruá cruá of toads I cannot see,
hungering for the only fruit left to harvest.
Piero claims the best ones have already fallen;
I dart my eyes in the almost dark along damp ground
expecting a burst of saffron-gold to cross my vision,
All anticipation, mouth watering for bitterness.
Nothing. I find no fruit. The rooster clucks ki-kiri-ki.
Luquillo Beach, Sunset
Mi hombre ardiente, he drinks heat everywhere,
collects sun from each place he has loved, fades
from white--winter’s curse,
to red--summer’s scourge,
to beige--tan now, nearly there,
to brown--finally. Color contentment.
In Connecticut’s December he is Irish;
elsewhere emerges Portuguese histories, Cree
ancestries, perhaps a Negro woman in his past,
a maybe-Mestizo medley.
I soak the last warmth of the day into my left arm,
eyeing him in place of dusk-glow.
Market Day in the Rain
burst free from
blue-green Kabocha skin,
against smooth Jonagolds;
Pink worms emerge
from late corn, hard ground;
blackberry juice is
Fresh dirt turns
muddy, slides from
vegetal turns bracing--
Raw winds whip.