Black Sheep, Red Stars

Wendy Barker

He'd appear like a bird
 that wanders into a place
 on its way between two continents.
 Surrounded by houses
 that sopped up sparkle like sponges
 he'd roll out of a '47 black Cadillac

 and wave a bottle of rum
 shimmering in the sun like amber.
"Pam, darling," he'd call to my mother,
 his voice so raucous
 Mrs. Simonitch next door
 would move one slat of her Venetian blinds.

 His toes pushed from limp huaraches
 and he grinned as if he knew
just how much acid
 the sight of him,
 shadow-bearded, yellow under the arms,
 produced in my father's stomach.

 When he talked
 our windows grew arches, opened doors
 onto courtyards, lemon trees, parrots,
 we could hear the rustling of green feathers,
 the chirrings and cawings of orange birds.
 Small on the sofa I said

"Let me come live with you,"
 something in my lungs knowing
 that in a place named Jlayacapan
 people might swallow drinks

the colors of bougainvillea
and move at night

to music that had never heard
of a metronome.
And when Uncle Dick and his friend Pedro
sat me between them
on the Cadillac's dusty front seat
to watch High Society at the Frontier Drive In,

I held myself taut and sweaty, dreaming stars
thicker than sugar on oatmeal,
stars farther than heaven,
stars and hibiscus and mangoes
that could cluster around a life
as long as a laugh.