"Les Corses sont un peuple que aime
bien leurs morts..."
- Uncle Xavier, explains as we cross an untended cemetery in Layrac.
(They aren't the only ones, I think to myself)
I.
I cut sprays of bougainvillas
with a steak knife on my lunch break
deep azalea, and flamenco orange.
the vines entangle the iron railing
stretching in garlands that shade
the square of the warehouse porch.
Bougainvillas are free here!
Work has imposed a stoicism
fed by coffee, computer screens
anonymous marketing schmooze
and I hide as music vendor,
publicity coordinator extraordinaire
the import/export foreign port
CD cover queen, e-mail teleport
dream, dream on, move on..
pretend no one died,
hold on to your life
where sorries are swift
people whisper and wonder
why you're back so soon.
On the stairway, around one
sun is high, the best time
for bougainvillas and quiet
so strong,these branches are thick
-these thorns amaze me.
I had no idea, all this time
I bought roses.
Bougainvillas who pose and menace,
I am happy now.
as they will stay chaste,
Mini kozo paper lanterns
in fuschia, to wave and hang
over your name.
No one will dare
bend down to kiss your grave.
II.
It is cruel to be buried in a plot
facing the children's section.
The pinwheels and mini balloons
spin and bob the way.
Is this a torment?
Do you see it like I do?
My pain should be less
to see a young couple
at the baby graves
come to see a boy named Elías,
the oval photo reveals his
tender brown face, proud
of Oakland Raiders blacks and greys
Life is cheap, life's a bitch.
One day you own a Victorian home
you shop for burnished fixtures,
and custom kitchen tiles,
you worry about the trees
who invade your pristine bay view.
You have a project to do in the attic
You stockpile sheetrock in the yard.
It needed to be hung before it rained.
You should've put it away.
Who'd of thought such a hot
October day would be your last?
Orange lavendar sunset, so still.
I watched you weld
those ornamental curlicues on
to the iron gates, you had designed.
That ash red metal could've been a brand-
on your muscles: taut canvas
for the gothic heart banner tatoo.
How'd it take them two days
to identify you when your
name was inked on your shoulder?
That's what i remember...
You took off that night.
Everybody told you not to go.
What do you tell a brother
when he drops everything for a woman
he is not supposed to touch?
You drove across the bridge
checked into a freeway-side hotel
and checked out of our lives forever.
The sheetrock crumbles
in February rain.
III.
Bougainvillas are free,
I've run out of money for roses.
Next payday I'll bring tulips
Soon there will be gardenias
from mom's garden,
orchids and hibiscus
I will cut them
and fill the coffee cans.
Bougainvillas are strong
their thorns like nails
to hang themselves on
white villa walls
(like sheetrock new and dry)
like blistering Sevillan patios
and terra cotta planters
of overgrown geraniums
like all the grammas in Mexico had.
Remember our restaurant?
Our big money concept,
our Spanish terrace/bullfight ring?
Live music, family recipes
and top shelf tequila -we's pack'em in!
With this hope you began to collect
tacky velvet paintings of machos,
mariachis, and sacrificial vixens.
I will inherit them all.
If someone comes to your grave
to press their body close to your name
don't worry these bougainvillas
will ward off feigned praise.
Your visitor will ask
"Who brought these?"
-and not know,
not know me, or you
or any of us
well enough to know
who keeps watch to tell
the ill-intentioned, back off
and stay the hell away from my family!
As I drive on Highway 80,
a freeway flash of flames
coursing through my veins
and my limbs feel heat,
I am fast, invisible, and able
to break someone's neck.
I see cars I might follow,
God help me,
I used to be a dancer,
and now this.
I bring bougainvillas
to spend my lunch breaks,
hard commute time,
and some birthday cake with you.
I know it's not really you,
You are rare birds in sunlight
the namesake of my unborn child
the untouched creak on the stairs.
No one will step up to the door
with your weight and rhythm
and fly through the kitchen
for your lunch and an ironed shirt.
I will bring bougainvillas
and nobler flowers when I can,
sorry, but I need to make the rent.
Nature's humor is sick and bent
the same curved talons that
gripped your life, will stubble
the lawn of your grave
and scratch the stone,
and wait and prey
for the insincere...
I'll wait and pray
since I am here.