Boulders from the last ice age
divide the cascade’s dive. I find a small space.
Why does crazy made love mean
so much with a stranger, as if the less I
know the more I feel. Sadness
impenetrable, are we friends? In my pocket
a map of a halved Korea.
Cara-caras nest a bonsai-ed pinon pine
singing love-death, love and death.
My whirl is two bumps below your nape,
One I touch, one I’m kissing.
Wing us here—Beehive Desert—where it hasn’t
misted or rain-dropped since Mardi Gras.
* * *
Ana’s Older Brother Frank
Nestor and Rey Lopez del Rincon Gonzalez—twins.
To Nestor, I said my name was Jack.
To Rey, I said my name was Bobby.
They invited both of us to a party for their sister,
Ana, her Quince Primaveras, her Fifteen Springs.
My mother, who loved the Kennedys,
bought me a leisure suit with wide mistletoe lapels.
Jack can’t make it, I said to Rey.
Bobby has band practice, I said to Nestor.
It was the first time I’d been invited
to a party that wasn’t at someone’s house.
Ana was a year older than Nestor and Rey.
Frank was two years older than Ana.
Always, always, somebody named Frank.
* * *