In Mexico they bowed
their heads when she passed.
Timid villagers stepped aside
for the Judge’s mother, Doña Luz,
who wore her black shawl, black
gloves whenever she left her home —
at the church, the mercado, and the plaza
in the cool evenings when she strolled
barely touching her son’s wrist
with her fingertips,
who wore her black shaw, black
gloves in the carriage that took her
and her family to Juárez, border town, away
from Villa laughing at their terror when
he rode through the village shouting
spitting dust,
who wore her black shaw, black
gloves when she crossed the Rio Grande to
El Paso, her back straight, chin high,
never watching her feet,
who wore her black shaw, black
gloves into Upton’s Five-and-Dime,
who walked out, back straight, lips quivering,
and slowly removed her shawl and gloves,
placed them on the sidewalk with the
other
shawls and shopping bags
“You Mexicans can’t hide
things from me,” Upton would say.
“Thieves. All thieves.
who wore her black shaw, black
gloves the day she walked, chin high,
never watching her feet, on the black
beams and boards, still smoking,
that had been Upton’s Five-and-Dime.