Rebecca Villarreal

 

DRAWING

I love for you
to draw maps on my body
knowing which way to turn
dip, get off
Finding home in the curve
of my back
Settling there for a moment
your warmth
mingling with mine
until we sleep

 

BOY AWAY FROM AN ISLAND
For Marcos

Sun's not sure here
water's only flowing
from the faucet

He's cold
and eating from boxes
with words
that get caught
in his mouth

His tongue twists around
consonants
then asks for
achiote, adobo, asopao
de pollo

Sometimes he finds them
in the market
with no carts

or hears them
floating
from apartment high windows

even if the red bricks
don't look like home
the high pitch of a mother's voice
"Cómo te atreves hablarme así?"
brings a smile to his face
now pale from cloudy days


 



Mark Rooney
Dancer
(1994)
60" x 36", mixed media on paper.

see more of Mark Rooney's work

 

 

MY OWN PLACE

My own place
with walls the color of cardamom tea
No one need enter
without an invitation
Disco fever reigning the airwaves
taking me back to a time
when I knew all the words
and all the moves

Go back to film strips, double dutch,
and Now and Laters
Get away from I love yous to lovers
who fly away in the night
Give me back my cherry Lip Smacker,
my Sergio Valentes

Let me roll my eyes with disdain
because you just don't understand
Let me call your mama, your papa, your dog
Let me pull your hair
and push you down

Walk me around the back alley
and tell me
baby you're the one for me

 

FOR NOA

Your mama's tummy doesn't ache
like yours will after Doritos and Coke and Pop-Tarts
Your mama's tummy feels the kick swift and hard
of your left, no your right foot, then the flip
you like to do in front of whoever's watching
She lets us touch round and hard,
sometimes you hang on the side
happy as could be waiting for her to eat
another green apple or if you're lucky,
a Milky Way Dark,
but anyway everybody says you're a boy
'cause of the way you sit in your mama's belly
or the way you kick or the way you like to keep her up at night
but truth be told you're a light with no name, just a baby
with a room painted three times yellow and a love
waiting for the 8, 9 or 10, you're a song dancing lightly
'til you kick through the sound of your mama saying, "It's time now"
and we wait Baby Clark-Siegel
we wait for your dance, kicks, cries and all.

 

CONGRATULATIONS
(Race for the Cure, June 5, 1998)

51,000
plus
walk
run
pacing
by
numbers
ahead
of
eyes

tears
welling
for
lumps
in
your
breast
in
mine
in
my
mother's
who
once
held
my
life

I
can't
stop
reading
the
signs
on
people's
backs
"For Lynn"
"For my daughter"

I am crying now
because
some signs
are in celebration
and some
are in memory
and some
are survivors
no older
than
me

I am
asking
God
why
each
time
my
foot hits
the pavement

I don't
hear
an answer
but
believe
in the
signs
and
the
women
around
me

 

Rebecca Villarreal is a writer of poetry, fiction and essays and a visual artist based in Washington, DC. Her poems have been published in E, The Emily Dickinson Award Anthology, WordWrights! Magazine and California Quarterly. Villarreal has served on literary panels in DC and Maryland and has taught creative writing to public school teachers and children. She is also a board member of the nonprofit organization NECA, the Network of Educators on the Americas. Her chapbook, First Come, First Served, is forthcoming in June 2001 from Mama Chelo Press.

Published in Volume 2, Number 2, Spring 2001.