Wake
A doughy doll bundled in black sat in
a corner, white hair piled in a Gibson bun.
Pecking her doughy cheek I got a whiff
of withering.
An early night in May. Her husband
lay in the casket, white hair parted
to one side, black rosary beads
in waxen hands. My uncle’s hand
on her shoulder. “He’s with God.”
I wasn’t old enough to believe
or disbelieve. To say yes, there is
or no. Outside, under a canopy
I waited to get into a parked car.
- © Peter Mladinic 2022
Rain
The Viking Bar had sawdust on the floor.
Martino’s had waiters
With towels on their arms and the Mohawk
Tavern waiters’ white jackets were cut
at the waist. Henry was at our table in
Martino’s in Juarez, his Spanish passable.
Round, pale, he was with me
under a tarp in a grove of trees one
afternoon. The rain stopped.
We rode down dirt roads in Pinyon Draw,
which was green. It was tranquility
seeing, hearing the rain with Henry.
- © Peter Mladinic 2022
Peter Mladinic’s fourth book of poems, Knives on a Table is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, USA.
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