And the last poem, "Coincidental."
"It was the fragrance of diesel, as she
plucked a postcard from a sidewalk carousel, that
convinced her.
She'd book passage on a freight, journey
to a land where the language was a music she
hadn't heard, because all music enchanted her.
No, it was the red striped hand towels at the department store
sale, the tiny manufacturer's tag,
words in a script she'd never seen before,
or a sound she recalled from school, a marble that
rolled down an aisle between desks
during the silence of a history test.
Piedro, it was Piedro, the little boy next door who
prayed with his family at dusk behind the house,
his accent which she couldn't quite place,
or the pack of blue cigarettes left by an overnight guest,
chocolates from a shop on a street she could find only
once, her grandmother's bedspread depicting a folk
dance, her preference for the anonymous,
for vessels, things that float, stories that
change each time they're told."
Thank you so much for coming to this reading.