Me – Irish catlick working class:
mantillas, martyrs, Maynooth, Mass.
You – a literal Lutheran lass,
all pretzels, prenups, Mama Cass.
It never could have ever worked:
those ambiguities that lurked
were knees that, one day, would have jerked,
and we’d have wound up Douglas Sirked.
Your Nancy Clutter beats my Holden
(less Marlon Brando, more Karl Malden).
The pond we’re on was never golden –
winter white-out wiped out Walden.
I would have wearied of your sermons,
short Sheridans and shallow Shermans,
your Sophie Tuckers, Ethel Mermans,
poe-faced Pennsylvania Germans.
Ignore the stranger on the shore,
by Stan and Stella set no store.
Don’t give a damn what Della wore,
or Mary Tyler any more.
++ The Gathered Women, a short poem++
A Magnificence captures
Us
Unexpectedly
We run off
To hunt our mantillas
From long ago youth
To address
And dress our heads
In all felt humility
—————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 2/21/22
**a mantilla is a lace veil
Catholic women wore to church
before the 1990’s
Mi Mexico lindo:
Burnt orange and ochre --
color de cafe --
pineapple, lime, red pajaritos...
land of mananas, grace in mantillas...
balanced canastas, ojos expresivos.
Sunshine and heat, fiesta y corrida,
salt and tortilla, pride and tequila.
Frijol and machismo and chile con queso.
Adobe, caliche, sweet agua fria...
Mexico, te amo mucho, y su gente amable!
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