by Sandra Cisneros
This is my father.
See? He is young.
He looks like Errol Flynn.
He is wearing a hat
that tips over one eye,
a suit that fits him good,
and baggy pants.
He is also wearing
those awful shoes,
the two-toned ones
my mother hates.
Here is my mother.
She is not crying.
She cannot look into the lens
because the sun is bright.
The woman,
the one my father knows,
is not here.
She does not come till later.
My mother will get very mad.
Her face will turn red
and she will throw one shoe.
My father will say nothing.
After a while everyone
will forget it.
Years and years will pass.
My mother will stop mentioning it.
This is me she is carrying.
I am a baby.
She does not know
I will turn out bad.
Kristi after 40 provided the name of the poet, and I dug this one out of her collection.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
My Wicked Wicked Ways
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3 comments:
That is a very sad poem. Good, but sad.
It's the kind of thing that fascinates me, the way a poet can tell a whole story in so few words.
sho moves it right along. I can see her influence in Kristi's poetry.
Moves along very visually, and then she slams the door shut with the last line.
Oh my, what a compliment. Thank you for noticing, Steve. I do so love her poetry!
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