Scorched by the burning sun
from early morning to late afternoon
we tried to dig a tunnel to China
but gave up after three feet
to play in the hole covered
with a woolen blanket
woven in patterns
of turquoise and scarlet.
Saturday night baths and bathtub rings,
yellow borders on silk bandannas,
we knelt in dark confessionals
and recited our sins from a list,
written in cursive by our mother.
Evening benediction made us sneeze
the incense lingered ‘til Sunday Mass
then we were off to grandpa’s farm
beyond the bread ovens of the Navajo.
Over the bridge, past the man
with a brown face and a tootless grin
who always waved when we went by
in our red and white station wagon.
We followed burnt umber roads
to a white washed house
in the middle of the farmland.
The adults gathered to laugh out loud,
to tease each other and share a meal
but spoke too fast in Spanish.
We couldn’t understand a word they said
so we ran off to an abandoned house
we knew was haunted.
Threw rotten eggs
on the crumbled walls
then told ghost stories
played tag between the rows
of dried corn stalks until we saw
the sky dusted in crimson and gold.
One by one, we left the place
that housed our families for generations.
Over time, “we” became “I”,
no common history or recent memory
except when we were children long ago
in the painted hills of New Mexico.
