Black Sheep, Red Stars

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.