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When not with Willie in Albuquerque,
Evelyn stayed in Santa Fe
gardening and fucking young men
she never called boys. She was hip.
I use my hips like training wheels,
she laughed on her job as librarian
for the State of New Mexico.
She grew corn and squash in her great garden
and brought Willie corn and squash that he ate
in his hot tub, wiping his lips with suds
from the churning water. If he had fun
so did she. If he was sad, having lost
a game and would be facing the best team
in the conference with such poor prospects,
she devoted herself throughout the night
to his pleasure. She did what he asked her,
she loved. So did whomever else was there
naked, languishing, ready for his cock
. . . But then how do I know such things?
I kept my clothes on the night I was stopped
for driving too slow. We had smoked and drank
by her garden where she analyzed my work
by referring to Garcia Marquez,
who never wrote poems, I insisted.
You’re the one who reads Garcia Marquez,
she replied, Or so you say, I don’t know
Spanish that well. I don’t read it either,
I said, Gregory Rabassa’s version
in English improved on his own or so
he said. She thought that was unusual.
I wondered aloud if my poetry
would be worth translating into Spanish
someday. She said she doubted such fortune.
Life was full of disappointments.
I should have gone to college to play ball,
I could fuck my fill of beautiful girls
with a body carved out of discipline
to desire nothing more than victory.
She walked me to my car, kissed me lightly
on one cheek, and on the way home I ran
out of smokes, and driving too slow, looking
for a 7-11 I found one
in time for the cops to intercept me
going through the door. A long night in jail,
then court and conviction, and on appeal
my friend and lawyer Louise got me off.
After all, she knew the judge, Teresa
Gomez, who said cops had no business
making an arrest for driving too slow
where the minimum speed was not posted.

(29 August 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander