Madre

Artemio’s mother lies at the cemetery
just above Geronimo Creek.
The trees stretch their arms,

but they can not reach her with their shade.
The clouds dip down but lose their crown,
the sun tries its best to brighten her day,

but it is ninety million miles away.
Failure, failure is what one would expect.
The birds whistle their songs for her,

the mockingbird wears out its beak.
Hell, the son-of-a-bitch even learns to speak.
Alas, only the ornithologists seem impressed.

Artemio’s mother lies at the cemetery
just above Geronimo Creek,
the boards of the old bridge used to rattle

to let her know Artemio was on the way
for one of his rare visits.
Unfortunately, the county has gone

and built a brand new bridge.
The dead don’t like surprises,
so Artemio bangs two boards together

just as he approaches with flowers
and a Virgen de Guadalupe candle.
The new bridge looks confused.