Maria Pilar Conn Poems

There they sit, covered in black mud,
small, chubby, old Mediterranean people.
Sitting with their chairs in the shore,
the sea coming in and wetting their legs.
...

When I was a kid I used to run through the corn
having been taught to hide.
I would sit quietly; no one knew where I was.
Once I lay down and fell asleep hearing the song of corn leaves
...

You stood in the circle of light
Cast by the fire
Cast like iron
Cast by flame
...

It was a sea of olive trees that place in which you left me
sweat pooling under my breasts.
The bread was hot, dripping dark olive oil over my nails as
I drank the wine of communion. My sins accompany me still.
...

My mother never fit in.She was a foreigner that stayed a foreigner.
Always looking out of place between the corn and the hogs.
Dad was a mechanic that belonged.
He plucked a foreign flower, in a foreign land,
...

Must I ask permission for wandering afar?
Away into the mountains where there is only green.
To lie upon a small blanket, like the child who sees
but understands not what lies before me.
...

I keep weeding the garden; no blood flows from me.

My husband's stomach looks like Buda's.I have his smile.
...

Papa me llevaba a la feria de tractores, los dos solos.
El día lo recuerdo lleno de ilusiones.
Me sube a un tractor grande, amarillo.
Sonríe, me dice, mientras me toma una foto.
...

En invierno, saco el camisón que dejó
una triste tarde antes de su adiós.
Esta raído, podría coserlo.
Descolorido su rosa palo, las flores desechas,
...