And each and everyone.

But only for a little.

I believe God is

Love, and love is God.

And although some

Doubt God’s existence,

No one doubts the existence of love,

Even and especially those who have

Never met love.

I believe we are

Capable of atrocities beyond

Imagination and equally

Capable of extraordinary

God-acts as well.

I believe

There is enough misery

In the world, but also

Humanity—just a bit

More, I believe.

I believe in the power

Of a thought, a word,

To change the world.

I believe there is no greater

Sorrow than that of a mother

Who has lost her child.

I believe in las madres,

Las madres de las madres,

Y la santísima madre,

La diosa Guadalupe.

Because the universe is large enough

To encompass contradictions,

I believe these same mothers sometimes

Create monsters—los machos.

I believe mothers and grandmothers

Are the solution to violence,

Not only in Mexico / the United States,

But across the globe.

I believe what the generals need now

Are the abuelita brigades armed with

Chanclas to shame, swat, and spank

Los meros machos del mundo.

Amen.

At Fifty I Am Startled to Find I Am in My Splendor

These days I admit

I am wide as a tule tree.

My underwear protests.

And yet,

I like myself best

without clothes when

I can admire myself

as God made me, still

divine as a maja.

Wide as a fertility goddess,

though infertile. I am,

as they say,

in decline. Teeth

worn down, eyes burning

yellow. Of belly

bountiful and flesh

beneficent I am. I am

silvering in crags

of crotch and brow.

Amusing.

I am a spectator at my own sport.

I am Venetian, decaying splendidly.

Am magnificent beyond measure.

Lady Pompadour roses exploding

before death. Not old.

Correction, aged.

Passé? I am but vintage.

I am a woman of a delightful season.

El Cantarito, little brown jug of la Lotería.

Solid, stout, bottom planted

firmly and without a doubt,

filled to the brim I am.

I said the brim.

Remedy for Social Overexposure

Seek a pirul tree and sit

beneath immediately.

Remove from

ears and tongue,

words.

Fast from same.

Soak in a tub of seclusion.

Rinse face with wind.

In extreme cases, douse

oneself with sky. Then,

swab gently with clouds.

Dress in clean, pressed pajamas.

Preferably white.

Hold close to the heart,

chihuahuas. Kiss and

be kissed by same.

Consume a cool glass of night.

Read poetry that inspires poetry.

Write until temperament

returns to calm.

Place moonlight in a bowl.

Sleep beside and

dream of white flowers.

Never Mention to the Daughters of the Republic of Texas

That you made love

on an office desk

on the seventeenth floor

with a view of the Alamo.

Saw it upside down.

Your head dangling

off the edge of the desk.

But saw it right for once.

Shook from memory—

Bosnia. How neighbor

upon neighbor fired.

Grief in one century

bred in another ire.