Genmai
In Unoki, I ride my bike
to the grain shop,
ask for genmai,
brown rice. Food for birds
and peasants, the merchant
laughs.
Birds and peasants
are healthy, I trill.
Under a drizzle
of cherry blossoms
I pedal back home
with a kilo of genmai
that I and one wild bird
will feast on.
• • •
Walking Away
1
A border a father
last time walking
crossing to home
in el sur
In el norte a daughter
stays watches him walk
cross leave again
and again goodbyes
Two lives defined
by a split a wall
contacts and fractures
on a seismic earth
he studies
2
Daughter learns to walk
leaves house ventures
to father’s woodshop
follows scent of cedar
maple pine sawdust
falling on black hair
red flannel shirt
she strokes for warmth
his tuned-guitar smile
will soon brighten
another house
3
Years of brief encounters
later in el sur
in a house of sons
in a room of cedar
lies a father
who can’t recall
name of daughter
named after him
I know who you are
Mona Lisa
Laughter father’s antidote
for pain left his body
tuned smile melodious voice
scent of cedar cling
to the end
The bone-gnawing ogre
drugged numb
father gazes at daughter
last lucid words So near
and so far
• • •
Gina Valdés’ poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies in the US, Mexico, and Europe. She has recent or forthcoming work in Spillway, Huizache, Adanna, Full-Bleed, and 50/50: Poetry and Translations of Women over Fifty.