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hair
    on Cliff Barnes’ chest tickled
    my Auntie Linda until she cried,
    Aiiieeeee! Auntie Ning beside her
    rolled cotton balls in tubes
    she used to dab the cheap nail
    polish that pooled between
    her cuticle and skin.
    Days, Auntie Linda worked
    at Hair Cuttery. In her chair,
    clients were mortified to hear,
    Sagging breasts means sagging hair,
    as Linda parted their wet mops
    down the middle for effect.
    Nights, I painted my nails
    Pearlucious. I begged for Ruby Red .
    But Linda said, That’s an old,
    white ladies color. They leave quarters.
    Their husbands leave watches.
    Auntie Ning hiked up a pant leg,
    and I dug my fingers into her calf.
    She writhed and slapped at the thin rug,
    tossed over holes in the thinning carpet.
    Meanwhile, J.R. tippled scotch.
    Close-up, wordlessly, he scolded me
    for carving grids in the lotion
    I lathered on Ining’s legs.
    Ice clinked in J.R.’s glass. Crystal,
    it twinkled in the light. He took
    a swig and said, If you point
    a double barrel shot gun at me,
    you better fire both barrels.
    Linda worked on Ning with
    a chopping motion that prompted
    her to tell the story of how she
    wanted to karate chop the neck
    of gentlemen clients who waited
    by her car to ask her out. I was ten.
    Even then, I figured she also
    meant my father, who teased her
    at dinner, You touch dirty old men,
    when every morning he tramped
    the hallway in a towel, his package
    swashbuckling hip to hip.
    When I rubbed Linda’s tiring
    hands, she said I should work
    with her, Saturdays nights,
    tips plus ten bucks an hour.
    Sue Ellen carried John Ross to the jet.
    Back then I wondered, who calls
    a child by such an adult name?
    The child who, a season later,
    is eight years old. After two more,
    he turns fourteen. A hiatus and
    he returns to Southfork, to learn
    to pick flesh and blood
    apart just like his father.

SEGUIR
    Un pescador
    en la cama del río,
    un gusano
    tan enfriado como
    leche en la mano,
    ensarta el anzuelo
    anillo a través
    de los bulbos
    de la carne.
    Penetrado
    se afloja
    como una cintilla
    que se quita
    de la rueda
    y se llena
    con polvo.
    El cielo está gris.
    El pescador
    coge la caña,
    trozo de plomo
    con forma de lágrima,
    lastra
    la línea de seda,
    a la vez que hunde
    su palma
    en el corque
    del mango.
    Al tirar la línea,
    dibuja semicírculos
    en el aire,
    ese movimiento sutil
    como una hoz
    y el aire suelta
    una soporosa queja
    mientras la línea
    siega por encima.
    La línea vacila,
    sobre la expansión
    de agua, gira
    el cilindro de la trampa
    de la línea tan rápido
    que el huso chirria
    como lo misma
    pena de las visagras
    de la puerta enojada.
    El pescador espera
    oír el sonido
    roto por el projectil
    el silencio del agua
    antes de buscar
    la carnada donde
    las pequeñas ondas
    se combaten por
    el agua más allá.

SEGUIR : TO FOLLOW, KEEP ON, CONTINUE
    A fisherman
    on a river bed,
    a worm
    cool as milk
    in his hand,
    threads his silver
    hook through
    the bulbs of
    the worm’s body.
    Pierced
    it goes slack
    as tape drawn off
    a wheel and
    sated with dust.
    The sky is gray.
    The fisherman
    grabs his pole,
    tear-shaped iron
    weights ballast
    the fishing line
    as he sinks
    his palm into
    the groove he wears
    and wears into
    the handle’s cork.
    Casting he loops
    the line behind him
    and swings it
    keen as a sickle
    and the air lets go
    of a sleepy groan
    when the line
    mows over it.
    The line across
    the water’s
    expanse spins
    the barrel of the
    fishing line’s trap,
    so fast the spindle
    moans like an angry
    door’s hinges.
    Then the fisherman
    waits for a plunk
    before he searches
    for his bait
    where the ripples
    already gang up
    in the water
    beyond him.

IN THE TIME OF THE CATERPILLARS
    Auntie Ining renders fat from slabs of pork she’s cut into cubes.
     
    At the kitchen table, I render “Scene from the Garden of Gethsemane” in chalk, in the backdrop a greasy staccato.
     
    Sweeten your tongue to the roof of your mouth till /e/s come out, if you want to