My Grandmother Would Rock Quietly and Hum

in her house
she would rock quietly and hum
until her swelled hands
calmed

in summer
she wore thick stockings
sweaters
and grey braids

(when “el cheque” came
we went to Payless
and I laughed greedily
when given a quarter)

mornings,
sunlight barely lit
the kitchen
and where
there were shadows
it was not cold

she quietly rolled
flour tortillas
the “papas”
cracking in hot lard
would wake me

she had lost her teeth
and when we ate
she had bread
soaked in “café”


always her eyes
were clear
and she could see
as I cannot yet see
through her eyes
she gave me her self
she would sit
and talk
of her girlhood
of things strange to me:
Mexico
epidemics
relative shot
her father’s hopes
of this country
how they sank
with cement dust
to his insides

now
when I go
to the old house
the worn spots
by the stove
echo of her shuffling
and
Mexico
still hangs in her
fading
calendar pictures

-By: Leonard Adame