Let me see those hands.”
Sly grandmother waits until the family leaves,
peeks out the front door of her adobe home,
sees her children and grandchildren walking
toward
their plot of land, another day of weeding.
Waiting is her game, waiting to fill the house
for the day with soft, cheerful companions,
baby chicks — pollitos — who peck the dirt floor
at her feet, peck the rice and corn she hides
for them, peck as she laments granddaughters who
were jeans, who drink beer, who kiss men on the
lips
in public. She grumbles, “¡Ay, qué muchachas!”
as she washes the dishes, as she waters her plants,
“¡Ay, qué muchachas!” as she cooks beans,
as she pats tortillas. In the late afternoon,
this mother hen with the long, gray braid
gathers her brood, patient listeners, sweeps them
out.
In the evening, when the family argues,
when her granddaughters sigh, “¡Ah, Mamá!”
at requests for loose clothes, high collars,
shy bodies; Abuelita dozes, too tired
from her day of talking to say more.