DEFINITIONS/REDEFINITIONS
Grace R. Monte de Ramos
1. My mother tends orchids.
White for weddings,
Lilac for funerals,
Birthday blooms are red. (Her simple system
Of generosity and grace.)
In the morning wind they flutter like moths
Escaping night's edge into a dream
Of green and rich water.
She feeds them bone of egg and muscle
Of patience. A thimble of wrinkles
She wears on her thumb, which is not green
But brown, like earth.
She grows flowers and landmarks,
Persevering like earth.
2. My father listens to big-band
Music, early jazz and swing.
He lies in his hammock thinking
Of young men in two-toned shoes.
In his day they did not wear denims to dances.
In his day he smoked cigars and ruined his teeth.
He hums the tunes, he knows each horn
And click by heart. He has a bad heart.
He remembers his wartime horse, how
It threw off the courier who would ride him.
Grandmother owned a waling-waling then,
, Hidden among the mango leaves.
Now he swings among his wife's orchids,
And to him they all look strange.
3. My sister lives abroad among souvenirs
Of many places: Glendale, Guadalajara,
Corvallis, Melbourne, Costa Rica, even
A little town called Quilcene.
She teaches me foreign language.
She sends me letter full of worry
And love, and checks "to celebrate."
Sometimes the checks bounce like kangaroos.
My sister combs her mail for signs
To a destination so dear
It will finally uproot her.
Do you miss me, she writes.
Of course, I answer, but not much.
I'm a feminist. I have many sisters. •
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4. My brother owns a jeepy
Loud with rock music, and swift.
He has named it after the enchanter
Whose fame and spell exceed the town's limits.
In the morning he ferries students to their classes.
He whistles the rhythm. The kids shout
The words, a fleeting chain of sound
That startles the stolid houses.
My brother swerves surely, thinking lightly
Of his pregnant wife. He is a good driver.
The road claims his eagle attention.
At night he drinks beer with the boys.
They dissect movies, love, automotive trouble.
My brother feels the world is his.
5. My husband pounds the typewriter,
Making up stories. He is word-mad;
He believes they truly matter.
Poems rim out his head, chasing me
As I dress for the office. At night
Metaphors lull me to sleep.
Once he turned prosaic
And pounded his fist on the door.
Fm sick and tired
Of your company, he roared.
Fine, go ahead, leave.
But he stayed for supper instead.
What could I do? I enjoy his cooking myself.
I am growing fat on gingered chicken and tales.
OCHRE TONES
Marjorie M. Evasco
The benediction in the air.
A lizard, translucent and newly-broken
from its shell, kisses the earth
at sundown, driven by some strange thing
more than instinct or genetic memory.
My best friend, Grace, says baby lizards
are messengers, presaging possibilities.
She believes in omens, earth calling
the littlest creatures to drink the first
mist of evening. Who is to say it is
moisture or the need for it that makes us
Crawl or bend our lizard lips
Upon the ground? Dusk cools our fevers
and there is joy in this surrender.
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