USA

MAKazalia@aol.com

my father has the box of photos

I haven’t looked at in decades
but today a flash of memory
one black and white picture of my mother
I see now in the reality of color
in motion before and after
the frozen moment of her smile
almost convincing me
of a genuine happiness

Seated on the outdoor picnic table
her pretty new cotton dress
the one with magenta apples and
pink and white blossoms
hand-painted in gradations
suggesting form on fine white cotton

I’ve felt and lived every moment
that film frame captured
her red lips black in the photo

Lipstick made from whale oil
reddened with a deadly dye
now banned by the F. D. A --

© Copyright, Marie Kazalia, 5/24/2001.

Mexico City day one: the Poor

thin sun-darkened young man
hands black with filth
naked chest bony ribs
his shirt holds a bundle of broken glass--
he shakes it rattles
steps in front of 3 lanes of stopped
red-light traffic--
spreads his shirt & glass shards
onto the street drops face down
as if in prayer to some weird deity
pressing his chest into the broken glass
then over on his back--
stands again gathers glass & shirt into
a bundle he shakes to demonstrate
the danger or miraculous-ness of what
he’s just done-- he extends his hand
to each vehicle--raising a finger
asking each driver for one peso I presume
I watch, others standing waiting
for the traffic light to change
see the glass-man gets nothing--

I stop and have my shoes shined
at a street stand
the man’s moving hands black
with polish he dips fingers in--

a monkey-less organ-grinder outside
the juice shop as I sip a Pina Colada
his companion passes-up everyone else
seated on stools--
his hand out to me--
I drop a couple US quarters into his palm
he gratefully bows a little--returns
to the grinder--music stopped
they move on--

a dark-brown man sits on the brick sidewalk
in the Districto Historico
pulling his squeeze-box accordion in & out
tiny child with him
I drop a 50 centavos coin into his
overturned hat

up ahead another similar set-up
I window shop and give them nothing
no small coins left in my purse

I left my hotel early this morning
after making a deal & paying for (once)
(11) eleven days--
when I return just before noon--
the hotel entrance-way a thriving temporary
outdoor restaurant--with fires and pans set up
frying oil and green tortillas
buckets of iced Coke
small children stare up at me
as I pass going in--

I take a nap in a nice clean bed--

© Copyright, Marie Kazalia,  3/7/2001.

dream constructions

always I try to build new walls
from the leftovers of past lives
old bedding stuffed with the memory
of a boy now grown
digging through the small things
yes those were your wine glasses
I remember these Indians head nickels
hammered into domed shape buttons--
pieces of things that rattle and churn
unrecognizable as belonging
to anything in particular
as strangers look on --
new in my life
why should I let them into judge
control what they can’t understand
time connected to my life
too short for them to dig deep enough
into my significance

© Copyright, Marie Kazalia, January 2001.

© All Copyright, Marie Kazalia.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.