WHAT I KNOW OF YOU
Bus stations in the dead hours
when the girls comb their hair in
the cracked mirrors of the four-
for-a-dollar booths that provide
backgrounds of Marilyn or Chuck
Norris and the junk sick hold
themselves like blown-glass
horses on a spinster’s shelf.
Sunglasses and the morning paper,
the creased routines of rolled
tobacco and bare bread
and the glare of parking lots
at noon, like pews the shaded places
of loading docks and trans-national
trucks and the men who step out
and shade their eyes and the girls who
don’t look at them and the women
who do, blue rivers of veins up
their thighs. And I would be drunk
like you on a log on a high river,
near the shore, but for a moment
off-kilter and afraid, as you right
yourself like the mercury in the level,
knowing at that moment
what is meant by float, to float on
this everyday sadness,
as the grapes float in the vat,
ferment into a holy red, which stains
the hands and feet of the harvesters,
the blind mouths waiting to be
blind.
Sheila Black is the author of a chapbook, How to be a Maquiladora (Main Street Rag Publishing, Inc., 2007), as well as two full-length poetry collections, House of Bone (CW Press, 2007) and Love/Iraq (CW Press, 2009) . She also recently published a second chapbook Continental Drift, with painter Michele Marcoux as part of an exhibit at the Patriothall Gallery, Edinburgh, Scotland in March 2010. Her poems have appeared in Blackbird, Willow Springs, Puerto del Sol, and Diode, among others. She lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico.