Natalie Treviño

Issue #
January 31, 2017

Grand Mother, Maria de Socorro

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
         Sync of your body

swaying with the lives that inhabit you—
your breath, an afternoon

inhalation, exhalation,
incantation, un pan

de Dios.

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