Nohemi

It hides behind whitewash, within
vestal stucco so as not to offend

las abuelitas who wear pretty dresses
and daub their foreheads with ash.

It's the self she's familiar with
the self she doesn't dare let on

she loves unconditionally -- a girl!
Imagine the wars such a revelation

would ignite.  I write of her true heart
unmitigated and unalloyed

by tradition, obedience, or that favorite
t-shirt of hers (it sports a portrait

of Chavela Vargas); Nohemi can often
be seen wearing it beneath a studious frown

and round, red-framed glasses she doesn't need.
In any quiet moment, it's obvious

her ear leads her mind.  The discerning,
not to mention the pure of heart, note this in her.

Un indio que sobrevivieron las hieleras
le preguntó por las direcciones aqui, en este El Dorado --

this citadel of gold and ghosts.
He could tell she was a true friend:

a secret queen of the strange and poor.
He saw through the stucco to the warm, hard adobe and straw

at the core.  Now he can admire
this new generation, their reverence

for law and blood.  Nohemi, after this
walked on in silence to work

pondering imponderables like,
"Are the envied enviable?"

She wonders briefly that every day
this winter the air has been perfumed with wood smoke.