And to bring that full circle, that particular aunt
had to go to work as a cantinera, a bartender,
because it was the only kind of work that would pay enough
that she could support herself and her two daughters and at
the same time allow her to be home during the day
when her daughters were home and she could have someone
to care for them at night.
"She tends bar while she waits for a man she hopes
will make his way north, slip across the border
from wherever the trains derailed him.
She tends bar while she waits on a man, who
slides a tip across the counter, a man who studies her
as she wipes beer and sweat from the counter, who
spies as she tucks his tip next to a baby's teething ring.
She hurries a tray of beer to a table wreathed in smoke.
Two men lean back, tracing the curve of her hips, their eyes
working the rise of her skirt.
In the way some men bet the dogs, others the cockfights,
others that the moon holds rain to spoil next week's work,
the men pomaded with Dixie Peach bets odds tonight
he'll cut the front of the barmaids blouse.
The woman who tends bar bites her tongue
as she walks away, feeling dangerous toward this man who
earlier offered to walk her home, who swore it would be
a privilege to change her ceiling bulb
and unstop her sink besides."