Claudine Moreau

 

SOUTH OF THE BORDER

The woman driving is blaring
Nugent at an exit off I-95 south.
Zero miles to the border
and the truck stops, steam
under its hood, heaves
itself cattycornered in two spaces.

This place lies desolate,
people-less, under a giant
bulbed sombrero and beige potbelly
of Pedro the patron saint,
the protector of a plastic fiberglass
petting zoo, statues with saddle paint,
wearing thin from asses
sliding off and on. A haven of flashing
follow-the-leader filaments, flickering
red chilies, a beacon
to a refried beans and rice special.

An empty souvenir shop, filled with
made-in-China, Mexican men ashtrays,
and South Carolina’s gilded
shot glass. The driver finds
a plastic wall plaque, annunciation piece.

Mary appears Mediterranean,
wears a woven straw hat,
rolling out an oval of corn meal.
The angel is yellow-skinned, brown eyed,
draped in red burlap sashes,
whispering into Mary’s ear.

This woman has a daughter at home,
nestled in bed, not alone.
Sixteen and will soon leave mother,
fertilized. Another tank
of gas can get through Georgia.
Pedro says, “It will take courage.”

 

IRS AGENT: ONCE A DAIRY FARMER

You called with the IRS
back into my life
on a tax check for year

1990 and your voice
was shifting on the line
like curious sun spots

stretching in shape.
It's funny where college
put you as you came

bounding before barefoot,
holding a spray from the haylofts.
That light scent from the cow

fields clung to your skin
I used to smell it on you in school—
green clover grass and manure.

You were cordial over the phone
as I crumbled stray cereal on my desk
reminding me of powered milk

we mixed with warm water
for the calves. Could I provide
the receipt for that? Your father

drove us around for hayrides
on your birthday.
I remember the crunch of corn

under the wheels.
In your DC city voice
I still hear you

squeezing udders
under your business suit.
I haven't kept the receipts.

 

24 HOUR LOVER

Black out lifts
yellow burns through
Venetian slats and gingham checked
ruffled drapes.
Light melts away fog
a night of drink
still lingers in the pores.
Cold morning tide curls in, lapping
over the toes
Swollen lips wrap around
the vulva of a glass lover
to quench parched
loneliness, new lover drained
under a drunken kiss.

 

CODE NAME TRINITY

You blew my heart up
at Trinity, an explosion equal
to 20,000 tons of TNT.

When the white sand settled,
a layer of my aorta
drifted to your car
130 miles north to Albuquerque.

Radiation experts say
I will not make it.
I am too catchy, too much glow
around the breasts, around the edges.

You send post cards, letters with radiation
badges that turn pink when I open them.
One said, "Hey, it's the end of the world."
I cry isotopic tears, shed skin-daughters.
Geiger counters cease their clicking.
Until finally, I become one with the background,
with the white sand of the New Mexico desert.

 

SISTERS

The luggage on my back
Is cheap and heavy.
I trudge, hunch backed
with caffeine jitters
Off the train, into the station.

Standing under Christmas wreathes,
She is with mother.
Waiting with long slender calves,
Arms that flow
Like ribbons around

Her and touch ground.
Closer, I see her first smile
Wearing braces; they poke
Over maroon stained lips,
Shining tiny silver spits.

She walks in steel
Toe boots, wearing ragged black
Second-hand skirt. Her fingernails
Are glittering, chipped in places.
A string of green lights

Above reflect brilliant twinkles
On light make-up over her eyes.
Her hair cut high
On the neck, she slides
Her hands over soft bristles.

She runs to me.
Her boots sink
Into my muddy head.
She kisses my cheek,
Her adolescence building

In circular swells. Tiny breasts
Brush my arm. Her breath
A frosted cube
Of grape bubble gum.
Reminds me of playgrounds,

Sliding boards, freeze tag.
I turn my face,
Afraid she will taste those male
Wines and liquors
Staining my eyes.

© by Claudine Moreau