He used to ride horses
Published 2021-11-25
(or, el bracero que si te quiso de a deveras)
Nothing disturbs them now. Doomed to be idle, to haul no cart or wagon, wear no bridle. Soul is the issue of so strict a fate. Serene now, superhuman, they crop their field.
—from “The Horses” by Jorge Guillén, translated by Richard Wilbur
On the day they took him to the hospital, Grandpa Pedro fell hard
as if a shooting star had struck the orange tree
under which he secretly smoked bud to relieve the pain
from the time he slipped in our shower.
Mom and I knew he would die soon,
both told ourselves, never to one another: “he probably won’t.”
When I got to the waiting room, my aunt Chabela, Grandpa’s oldest daughter,
was standing there— white, bald face— looking away from the family.
“You know,” she finally said, “he used to ride his horse—
when he was young— fast, very fast down a hill.
It was so loud that it sounded like a rainstorm hitting the dirt.
All his kids used to come out to see him,
but I was too afraid to look.”
In the glassy sheen of her eyes, I could see his:
they didn’t merely share the same gaze;
she had her father’s eyes.
Her stifled whimpers were like Grandpa’s when he used to yelp “ay ya yay!”
as in the refrain of a corrido anytime he sat down or got up.
I was ashamed to admit that the memory of his pain still made me laugh,
so I pictured instead the flash of life in him
from a week before when we walked to the corner store
to buy his favorite bread— Entenmann’s coconut crunch donuts.
Their Fozzie Bear complexion served as his nightcap
accompanied by a tall glass of milk filled to the brim.
He’d eat them in pairs, frugal even in pleasure.
At the store, we walked straight to the baked goods aisle
where he stacked four rectangular boxes in the shopping cart
as neatly as hay bales, and then back to the checkout line.
As the cashier scanned the items,
Grandpa pulled out money from a blue paisley bandana
as he did back in Mexico,
when he bought a young horse that no one had ever ridden.
The bills were crumpled and worn like his Levi’s—
spangled with Birdcatcher spots of paint and bleach.
He handed her the tender gently
as if it would crumble in her hands like a delicate pastry.
The woman at the register stared at one of the bills
and then at Grandpa and back at the bill
as if she were trying to find a resemblance
between his wrinkles and receded hairline and Washington’s.
I placed his bread in two plastic bags as he adjusted his sombrero
and outstretched his hands towards me.
I knew that all he wanted was to embrace the weight of something
that made him feel useful, to burden his body with work again.
I licked my index finger and peeled away two plastic bags
and shook them until they inflated like rumbling thunder.
I placed a box of Entenmann’s in each
and handed him the translucent sacks.
As we walked home, his arms swung listlessly like two freshly braided ropes;
long, thin, but strong enough to tame a wild horse.
Sweat dripped down the waddles of his neck
from the sweatband of his yellow Stetson,
yellowing deeper with every drop.
As we neared the house, I remembered Mom once telling me
that Grandpa always smelled of sweat and dirt and work;
she used to look forward to resting her head on his shoulder
and run her fingertips on the tanned wrinkles
cross-hatched on the nape of his neck.
Though work-withered and rough,
his hands were gentle on her cheek
like a fire that burns the firewood but warms the hearth.
Death’s thrumming hooves
bathed my back like a gentle rain
when I saw Grandpa lying unconscious in his room that night.
Though he wasn’t going to break this stallion,
I couldn’t look away, and for an instance,
I swear I could see him galloping bareback on Lucero—
a horse as indomitable as him—
drunk on aguardiente, his little girl in one arm
and colt mane in his other hand.
You can read more of my poetry at:
www.joseoseguera.com
Music: “Starry-Eyed” by Ziv Moran
*I don’t own any of the images used in this video, simply borrowing them 🙏🏽
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Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” I continued writing poems and in 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. Subsequently I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties senryu ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress clarke kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence — moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . the adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe the birds and people tweeting ~ busy crosswalk the seeing eye dog leads the way ~ **senryu is usually humorous, but it can also be serious. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking ( dealing with the Holocaust): ~ cattle cars between the slats human eyes ~ stutthof — the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~ Tanka ( I already posted the Jackson Pollock one about painting his face but here’s another Tanka ~ Here is another Tanka: thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ Haibuns The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is i fathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof — the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace —her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together —grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight — oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how —in his heyday —he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar —with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. new Harlem the a-train replaced by the bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy —as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al
