h o m e........

p a s t   i s s u e s....

s u b m i s s i o n s....

l i n k s

CONNIE VOISINE

TONIGHT THE MOON IS MEXICAN

and so is the wind
and so are the oleanders
the wind is bothering. 
The porch light is no longer 

anything but Mexican. 
It’s true; tonight
is full of this miracle. 
The river  

is finally Mexican and 
the house we live in, the bar 
at the corner and the rocks 
in the yard. The car is Mexican, 
the highway, the gas tank, 

your shoes. Mexican 
as the stoplight, the cat 
skittling across the yard, 
as the 7-11 and the father
you thought had forgotten. 

What isn’t Mexican, 
here, my love, tonight? 
All thinking has turned 

Mexican and don’t forget the cops
and the bodies of 
Wal-Mart shoppers—all 
of them, I am pleased to announce,

are Mexican. Tonight, how 
do you pay your bills?
In Mexican. 
How did you hurt 
your hand? Mexican. 
What did you say? 
How do I love you?
Mexican. Mexican.

UNFINISHED LETTER TO DEATH

Sorry to bother you, especially in this time of
 
Though we’ve often passed on airplanes, at the library, in the desert, I’ve never
 
I am writing to you, heart heavy with the pain of generations of
 
First allow me to introduce my colleagues and their
 
Let’s be honest: that dog had already
 
And we really didn’t know that insects
 
I agree, the arguments for the first attack seemed
 
Moreover, the sun gets very hot during these months, would it be too much
 
In the ring, most boxers
 
Vodka itself is not so terrible if 
 
The tobacco industry has systematically
 
You see, if I had only been ten minutes earlier,
 
The toaster and the hairdryer are indeed flawed appliances but
 
It only took one despot, a painting by Degas, and an angry mistress to
 
War, to many of us here in the United States, seems a bit
 
Please, think of the
 
How much would it take to
 
From now on, I will
 
I can guarantee, not only Geronimo and his ghost,
 
This is to advise you that you are not to come within
 
Without further adieu,

AMBIDEXTROUS

The right hand always says no problem—help yourself.  
The left hand is, oddly, never seen eating. 

The right hand is tall.
The left hand is short.

The left hand goes for rides with men.
The right hand does like a cocktail.

The right hand checks email, writes about Harold Pinter, his fascination 
with the abject, so many hobos and trashcan scenery, 
but sorry the vacuum is a little loud right now?
While the cord lashes itself back into its hole, the left hand 
remembers its ex, swinging at the policeman, and the phonebook falling 
into the dishwater. 

The right hand in the daytime says ask the dry cleaner about the spot and the button
and at night the left hand, shawled with streetlight, uses pay phones 
to call people in another country.

The right hand feels angry when the car is towed for sloppy parking, 
therefore the left hand is really not going to mention that the rake broke
when it was left in the driveway. 

The left hand gets some tattoos.
The right hand refrains from saying this seems inappropriate.

The left hand will not mention it used to eat peanut butter 
with a spoon in the aisles then return the jar to the shelf.

Meanwhile, the right hand can’t stop thinking about its marriage,
its fears for its children, the way its arms have gotten scaly with age,
the perpetual ugliness of feet, the neighbors’ lousy pitbull.

The right hand at Christmas will give the left hand its old car
and the left hand will buy the right
some lovely video games for Christmas where you can build a house
and go shopping. 

The right hand reads an instruction manual thoroughly
while the left hand’s heart breaks at the sight of the red gladioli 
at sunset out the kitchen window.

The left hand loves bathtime with the right hand’s children. 
Afterward, the right hand will kiss them goodnight.

The right hands over wages.
The left hand says thank you.

The right hand worries about the holes
in the ozone and the left goes to faith healers. 
The left wants to go back to where its mother lives. 
and the right hand would say, if it spoke about these things, I need you. 
The left hand would pretend it didn’t hear. 

THE INTERNAL STATE OF TEXAS

This much was known: 
It was large and largely dry. 
It was called terrarium-like by experts.
At first, I felt it slowly growing 
the requisite cactus and coast. 
I wrote letters to the then president
but he vacationed inside me for months at a time.
I can’t say Galveston was anything
other than sweet heat and water, 
though Dallas was a bitch until I passed it. 
It was the fighter jets that got better and better.
They came to appreciate me too.
In  those fabulous formations they swooned
curlicues on those bluest skies,
burning elaborate fuels like there was no tomorrow.
“Dear President, 
the streets of downtown El Paso 
are quite dirty and packed with people
vagrantly wandering.” 
He was photographed
inside me, with chainsaw, 
concerned about longhorns. 
I wanted something
Even thought the dollar stores simmered
like hens on their nests of cleaning supplies,
spatulas, and hair ties. 
“Dear President,
I had wanted something, I don’t know, 
prettier for myself by this age. 
Please advise.”
Meanwhile, men unscrolled miles 
of scotchguarded stuff.
Ezekial Hernandez was shot
herding goats and Krispy Kremes 
blindsided everyone. But I was younger then,
before the daring, handsome surgeon
who wore cowboy boots,
before the long convalescence  
and all that doctorly handholding.