A Study In Contrasts

The poems in this month’s issue are a study in contrasts. Kenneth Hart’s “Indecision” is a metaphorical reflection on what is “probably the least attractive quality in a man,” as the author says. “Los Vecinos” tells the story of Alison Luterman’s immigrant neighbor, a wise and generous woman, against the backdrop of nearby ICE patrols. What the poems do have in common is that they’re both absorbing and skillful pieces of writing. You can listen to the authors read their work by clicking the buttons below.

Take care and read well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor

Indecision
By Kenneth Hart

Probably the least attractive quality in a man, 
but here I am, sinking into it.

When I lift one mud-caked boot
with a sucking sound, the other sinks deeper.

If a man says, “I don’t know,” enough,
the woman’s heart clicks like a timer

counting toward the end,
its little shield rattling.

“Whether you go up the ladder or down it,” 
says the Tao, “your position is shaky.”

Look at this mud,
how dirt and water mix—

dirt in which we’ve planted seeds,
water we can no longer drink.

Los Vecinos
By Alison Luterman

Teresa, our Mexican neighbor,
climbs our porch steps on arthritic legs,
carrying a plate of fresh tamales,
still warm, wrapped in cloth,
because they’re having a cookout in their yard
with all the tías and grandbabies
and we’re included in the golden circle
of familia, through no virtue
of our own, yet here she is again at our door
with a plate of something delicious, or a big plastic bag
filled with nopales from the edible pads
of the giant cactus in their yard,
which she has skinned and cubed and boiled
in salted water. They’re slippery as okra
and tart as lemons, and she swears they will cure
a long list of ailments, including
but not limited to cancer, high blood pressure,
diabetes . . . Standing on our porch, leaning
against the railing, she enumerates
the benefits while I smile and nod, “Sí, sí, gracias . . .”
My friend who lives in a rich neighborhood
says she’s seen ICE patrolling, looking for gardeners
and maids escaping over the back fences of Marin.
They’re tearing apart families like clumps
of seedlings, uprooting whole delicate
ecosystems, but what they don’t
understand is the mycelial nature
of kinship, how love is a weed
that travels across borders in a bird’s belly
and pops up waving its arms, no matter the law.
Our block resounds with spangled mariachi tunes
all summer long, and I’d be lying if I said
I wasn’t jealous some evenings,
lying awake while parties go on around us,
because this land is their land, and this devotion
is tough and joyous, and Teresa can’t read
the red card that says “Know Your Rights”
in English and Spanish, nor understand
how I make a living, but she knows
what to do with the guava tree
growing along our driveway, whose leaves
are medicinal in dozens of ways—whose leaves,
as the Bible says, are given for the healing of the nations.