Osage
My father never called
my mother darling
as she sat
darning,
the needle clicking
against the light bulb used
to shape the heel
that mirrored
her bloated belly,
while thrusts
and jabs pushed
against her straining dress.
He simply slipped
quietly
into the hot
Wyoming night
leaving behind
a woman
forever troubled,
by the sound of
dry wind.
Twenty-four
We are lying in bed in your attic apartment
and I have just told you that you smell
like my mother’s breast milk.
I am 24 and she will die soon
leaving me orphaned and alone.
But for now I am
in your bed not knowing
why you take offense
at my comment,
while the sound of steps
on the treads outside your door
make you freeze
and want
to hide me.
In Mexico
for my mother
In Mexico the waves swelled
to ten feet and we threw
our bodies onto them
only to be raked
across the sand;
stumbling
to our feet we ran
before we could be towed
under as the next one built.
We cleansed ourselves of Guanajuato,
the city of brotherly love,
where Anna was raped
and LaReina Margarita walked
the streets to choruses
of bonita, bonita, bonita afraid
to go out alone.
Under moonlight we watched the deadly
waves rise and fall as Miguel said
“that was crazy”
and I added
“I can’t swim” to the startled
looks of friends and the stranger
who watched
us give to the sea.
In the morning he shared
his bottled water and fish bought
from the young boys on the beach
that caused hallucinogenic
nightmares as I laid in the hot tent
and dreamed
of my mother’s cinnamon rolls.
I left Mexico by train,
and then, hitchhiking
alone,
from Nogales
over Raton Pass
and then Denver to see
her face
once more.
Loraine Bond writes poetry and fiction. In her 9-5:00 life she works as a social worker and teaches parenting classes. When not working or writing she makes jewelry, reupholsters furniture, builds fences and decks, and creates one-of-a-kind wooden gates. This is her first publication. 
