Socorro, succor, supplicant,
supplement, supple, supper,
Sigh. Señora, Our
Lady, Grand Mother, Abuela,
Coco, whose powdered
toes pivot in their chanclas
with telenovelas, las novelas en la tarde,
de la gente escandalosa y fina
con un cafe, un pan, unos dos o tres
Raleigh cigarettes, bedroom window open.
You follow Veronica, Rogelio, La gata
in love, in crisis, their desire your song,
your eyes concerned, stern,
your heart back and forth
with the rocking of your chair
and their fortunes in flight and descent.
Struck by staged and flawless tears, you take drags
and drags of smoke to help get you through the hour
of their need. I am playing dolls
on the floor near the white talc
of your feet, your swaying skirt
forming dresses, blankets.
I pretend they want to sleep. The doves
coo coo coo-roo outside the window—
I hear sadness on the screen
and sometimes kissing.
Who are they, Grand Mother?
La gente, you say
—and maybe that is why you are named
Socorro—
Sync of your body
swaying with the lives that inhabit you—
your breath, an afternoon
inhalation, exhalation,
incantation, un pan
de Dios.