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Immortal
I was placed on your pedestal,
being careful not to slip.
You viewed me as perfect,
and I had to stay that way.
I kept my grades up,
became involved,
and stayed happy
just for you.
You didn’t think anything of it.
No bad thoughts of me
should enter your mind.
I try,
but the pedestal is slippery.
I hang on for dear life sometimes.
How could you make
a superhuman,
a god,
an omnipotent being,
out of this mere mortal?
The Generation Gap-Filled
The old man,
sitting alone
in a hospital
that smelled of latex
and lemon cleaner,
the white starched sheets
contrasted with the faded wallpaper.
He pulled out
a gleaming harmonica
engraved with war pictures
and began to play
bittersweet, lilting melodies
like
"When the Saints go Marching in"
and a jazz song nobody knew.
The little girl,
still dressed in her
pink, feathery dance costume
and scuffed black tap shoes,
went over to the man,
clicking her heels as she walked,
and started to dance clumsily,
twirling
jumping
and tapping
to an unknown beat.
When the song ended,
she clapped loudly
as everyone smiled.
Then he put away
his harmonica
and sank back into
his old age
and everyone was quiet
as if in awe
of a passing god.
Creativity
I was at camp
in July
sitting in arts-and-crafts
with Hillary and Sarah.
The wooden bences
stuck to the back of our legs
and we were bored.
Then, a lone rolly-polly
crawled over the table
and out of reflex
we caught it
and put it into an empty paint can.
We started to catch more
and more
and more
by the dozen they came
and we put them
into the can.
Then, in unspoken agreement
we began to paint them.
Silver
blue
green
gold
purple
and let them go.
Like little wiggly
rainbow shards
they crawled home,
unwittingly a homage
to young creative talent
and idle time.
Fiesta
I remember
going to fiesta.
I put on
my chile-pepper red skirt
that floats out when I twirl to the mariachi music
and my yellow ruffled shirt
with my shining silver concho belt
that clinks when I walk.
We would drive out to
La Villita
and help heat up the large grills
that look like old men smoking cigars
I work at the hot corn booth
asking people how much they want and
if they want butter or salt.
Then Bebe
pulls out the piping-hot corn
and we serve them
as the smell of grease
and sticky air
and spicy fajita meat
fills our noses.
Once I was finished working,
I join my friends
as we go to the fortune-teller
and get paper flowers
and crowns with flowers and ribbons
and we go to the back street
and win prizes
that don’t look half as good in our rooms
as they do it the open air.
We walk
along the Riverwalk
and watch the parade
until the sun set,
then run like pack rats
to get all the leftover decorations
so we can have a little part of fiesta
in our bedrooms.
Elizabeth's e-mail
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