Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith
9th Grade Reading Of Mice…..
Some days they entered like mice
other days they were hyenas or
happy dogs off their leashes.
Obviously, some teenagers do not care
where the pope buys his socks or the names
of the president’s pets.
The observant ones do notice
however, that every single cell
in the prison has a view
of the skyline. Most gods are lonely.
Other teens think the administration
is dressed to oppress and savage
their inner joy. But because of middle class
respect they remain silent. The waves
at the beach are quiet. The radio
is off and remains that way.
And what other options may present
themselves? They spend some time reading
the assigned novel, some sneaking handfuls
of nibbles they have hidden
in backpacks, and others battle dozing
off into naps with dreams of jumping the
iron fence and skateboarding away.
A few read the same passages over and over
because they do not want the novel to end.
Lenny touches it and it dies.
Lenny touches it and it dies.
No one ever wants to be the first
to offer an assertion. They are scared to
imagine killing your friend would be heroic.
I ask them, how would they end the story?
At La Playa
Next to the perro’s bowl is
where it’s at; there in the dirt
under some shade. Out
in sun the sand is
already hot and shimmering.
Near that busted chair the figure
with a devil’s haircut is
reminding the old man
about his sweet pie induced
dreams of drowning in big waves
at la playa. A ramshackle boat
coming to his rescue.
The three crew members
giving each other poorly
timed shoves. The sky
that color of missed chances.
And on the shore un burro wearing
big blue sunglasses is trying
to eat god only knows what
out of a rusted bucket.
On this playa the new pollution
is right next to the old oil spills.
(How are we doing today?
Are we ready to take the bus?)
Shells minus shells are everywhere-
the tide waits again to be the tide.
A man red from the sun
is beginning a lucha with himself.
No one will win this.
Back to the origin;
the perro lifts its leg and relieves
itself on a palapa,
and a little boy watches
his sandcastle erode away.
Drive Thru
What is the weather next week? My father drives watching clouds
in the sky. One cloud is his water ring-stained desk
another a spare tire smoldering after a long fire.
This is him, shuffling through his yard dragging his cane
behind, leaving narrow sand trails in the Arizona soil.
My brother and I discuss stealing or hiding his car
keys. Placing them under an old pot
near the brick barbeque pit where my father
used to burn crispy the tripas and cebollas.
When does the universe allow lying to a parent?
He still drives to the bank and into the drive thru
for café con leche. The house refuses containing his late life
adventures through the calles. At night he sleeps
in front of the television tuned to PBS dramas.
Once a long time ago in Mexico City he turned
on to a one-way street, going against
traffic. Slammed the brakes and got hit from
behind by another dyslexic driver. The police
arriving, giggling, shaking their tired police heads.
In the mornings my father finds pleasures by watering
all of his plants. Holding the green hose in a shaking
right hand. His pant cuffs getting baptized with
the spray in the early morning rays. Above among the branches
a guardian angel watches drinking hot coffee
from a dirty wine glass he has not had time to wash.
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith was born in Merida, Yucatan, grew up in Tucson, Arizona and taught English at Tucson High School for 27 years. Much of his work explores growing up near the border and being raised biracial/bilingual. An Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award Honorable Mention, a two-time Pushcart nominee, and an Eleventh-Hour Literary Journal and Kay Snow Poetry contests winner, he is trying to drink less coffee and get better at sitting and seeing.
Banner Art:
Photo by Matt Artz
