Now, as some of you know, I have written
and said a lot about this beloved aunt
of mine, whom we called Lobo.
And we did that because she would come home at night.
She never married.
And there were four of us at home.
And she was like a second grandmother.
And she would come to the door at night.
And she would knock on the door, and she would say,
¿Dónde están mis lobitos?
And so she became Lobo, a name that
became perfectly normal to us.
I have said to audiences, I thought
it was a perfectly normal name until the day I used it
on a Juarez streetcar.
And I lost sight of her, and I started saying, "Lobo, Lobo."
And all these people looked furious
at this disrespectful little girl,
who didn't know how to talk to her aunt.
But I have written a lot about her.
And what I have finally concluded
is that she is a very wily character.
Because just when I am through that I have--
feel like I have said everything I have to say about her,
she slips into another book.
And indeed, the poem about her is the first poem
in the new book, "The Loving Strip."
"Not for men alone do we remove our clothes,
slowly unbutton ourselves, and stare
at flesh soft as the underside of petals.
The aunt who dressed in black knew how to laugh,
but her scowling tongue ticked, [TONGUE CLICKING],,
each time Rock Hudson pressed his lips on Doris Day.
We'd jab Lobo hard, embarrassed at her muttered ¡válgame, Dios,
válgame, Dios!
But every Sunday, movies, luscious dark.
Afterwards, the depot, trains chugging out,
hand-in-hand walk to the plaza, and Salvation Army time.
She knew I loved that thumping drum.
Lobo's tongue ticked, [TONGUE CLICKING],,
at every man.
But she could melt our frowns.
Daily, she brought Archie comics, Butterfingers.
Late at night, she lifted her hand above our bodies,
la cruz más grande del mundo, her blessing a sturdy,
familiar quilt.
Always in black, Lobo never wore slacks, a lady of high collars,
sleeves to her wrists.
Of course, she didn't swim, until the day our tears
removed her clothes, the pool sign,
"No bathing without an adult."
She read our sighs.
Not for men alone do we remove our clothes.
She rented a black bathing suit, two-piece.
Though I was there, all that flesh and her face
will never match.
And yet, I hear her laugh.
We splash, climb her, dive into ripples
green, circle like frisky seals around our rock."