Levi Romero

woodstove of my childhood where potatoes cut like triangle chips were fried in manteca de marrano woodstove of lazy autumn smoke swirling away to nowhere woodstove of December evacuating the cold chill at sunrise woodstove of celebration and mourning of post-World War II Korea y Vietnam woodstove corner that kept vigil over drunken nodding remembrance woodstove corner where uncles primos compadres gathered on visits from Califas woodstove corner with a warm ear for nostalgia where Mama Ane stirred the atole and wrung her hands thumb over thumb praying for her children's children's children woodstove that witnessed six decades washing its face at the vandeja that saw western swing dancing in dim lantern flame that watched Elvis come in from across the llano strumming a mail-order Stella and singing in Spanish woodstove of the feast lamb tied up under the crabapple tree of early sour cherries ripening above the cornstalk horizon of neighbors bartering a cup of sugar in exchange for mitote and conversation woodstove of rain tenderly pouring into the afternoon and salt sprinkling onto the patio from the mouth of the porch woodstove of the nighttime crackling softly of harmonious harmonica medleys blowing before bedtime prayer woodstove facing John F. Kennedy's picture on the wall woodstove of Protestant Sundays ringing without bells woodstove of dark earth fat worms and acequias woodstove of 1960s propaganda and all the rich hippies knocking poorly at the screen door woodstove of private crazy laughter of woodpeckers pecking through rough-hewn barn timbers only to meet the sky of rabbits nervously nibbling evening away in the arroyo of the water bucket banging and splashing all the way home woodstove of the water drop sizzle of buñuelos and biscochitos and flour on the chin of chokecherry jam dropping out from the end of a tortilla woodstove that heard Mentorcito's violin bringing in the new year that saw Tío Eliseo bring in an armload of wood that heard Tío Antonio coming down the road whistling a corrido and swinging his cane woodstove of the blessed noontime and Grandma Juanita heating up the caldito woodstove of the sanctified and untamed holy spirit of the dream awake dreamers prophesizing in the beginning how the end would come of creaking trochil gates left open forever of twisted caved-in gallineros rocking in weeping April wind of abandoned orchards waist deep in desánimo of teardrops that held back the laughter of the penitente procession moving through the hills for the soul of the village woodstove of the wounded faithful proudly concealing their scars woodstove of armpit farts and bedtime giggles of pitchforks and axes under the bed in case of intruders of coffee cans filled with everything but coffee of ten cents for a cream soda at Corrina's of strawberry Nehis and a bag of chili chips at Medina's of a handful of bubble gum acá Santos's woodstove of genius wisdom dressed up as the village idiot of hand-me-down stories locked away in the dispensa of bien loco local heroes cracking homeruns Saturday afternoons en la cañada woodstove of all that and more of all that disappearing as children played hide 'n' seek in that abandoned goodtime feeling while stumbling on the footsteps of tradition woodstove that heard the fall of a people rising in silence that died of a loneliness without cure that cured itself in the company of the so many more lonely woodstove of my childhood

how can I tell you baby, oh honey, you'll never know the ride the ride of a lowered chevy slithering through the blue dotted night along Riverside Drive Española poetry rides the wings of a ’59 Impala yes, it does and it points chrome antennae towards ’Burque stations rocking oldies Van Morrison brown eyed girls Creedence and a bad moon rising over Chimayo and I guess it also rides on muddy Subarus tuned into new-age radio on the frigid road to Taos on weekend ski trips yes, baby you and I are two kinds of wheels on the same road listen, listen to the lonesome humming of the tracks we leave behind

at the unemployment office I know it can be a two hour deathly wait before one’s name is called out so I find a chair and bury my head in a book that I brought to read sitting beside me, a man and a woman converse talk of years past, of people they knew and Leonard, is he still in prison? yeah, he’s still doing time well, that’s good, I guess, means he’s still alive a young girl walks in, short black halter top and airbrushed-on jeans her breasts pouting up past a too-low neckline the men, the women, all stare whether they’d like to or not Leonard’s friends exchange stories yeah, my ex, she just wants my money I tell her, well, go work then! and they laugh between the irony life, huh, she tells him,it’s crazy, the things we get into, he agrees the rest of us caught silently in their exchange agree, as well his arms are thick with hair and tattoos of skills and scrawled out indecipherable letters of the alphabet yeah, this chick that was riding with me once, he tells her got her jacket belt caught on my wheel I didn’t even know it until I got to the next light I went back, she was alright, just fell off, didn’t get hurt or nothing she was pissed though. “just fell off, didn’t get hurt,” what does he mean? this story just drops off, I want to know a little more, a lot more I mean, how fast was the bike going when she fell off did she ruin the belt, scrape her nose did they drink a lot of beer afterwards? and so the time drags by, the line lengthens now and then people unbury their heads from their midmorning dragging into noon thoughts women adjust their bra straps scold their kids with unfulfilled warnings the folks behind the counter look at us holding their half empty cups of coffee ah, if only there was a dollar for every story

throughout the years I have designed high-end custom homes crafting spatial poetics with vigas and latillas hand peeled by mojados whose sweat translates into profit for developers working at a nifty rate sometimes I go visit these homes as they are being finished may I help you? I am asked by the realtor standing at the door, thinking that I may be the guy who mixed the mud and pushed the wheelbarrow I introduce myself as the designer oh, well, it’s so nice to meet you, what a wonderful job! please, come in. I was once asked by a home magazine journalist if I felt insulted by such incidents well, no, I said, my mind mixing for an answer a good batch of cement is never accidental last year on my way up through Santa Fe I made a detour and drove by a house of my design the season’s first snow on the ground, smoke rising out of the fireplace chimney inch by inch I know that house through its X, Y, and Z axis but, I cannot approach the front door knock and expect to be invited in to sit in the corner of my pleasing and lounge around with the owner as we sip on cups of hot herbal tea making small talk about the weather or discussing a reading by the latest author come through as the sun’s last light streams in gallantly through the window just where I placed it and for that reason I take a handful of snow to my mouth toss another into the air my blessings upon the inhabitants que Dios los bendiga y les dé más my grandfather would have said I turn my car toward home to my mother’s house a place near and far to me she, my mother, is bedridden and my brother is the self-appointed caretaker to bathe and feed her bring her morsels of conversation it is their own world now ruled by a juxtaposition of understanding against what I have come to know, now here, so far and away I am greeted at her front yard by an old, propped up trunk hood proclaiming my brother’s spray-painted inscription Jesus Saves on the opposite side it reads Keep Out! I guess it just depends on what kind of day he’s having, someone once remarked like a rattlesnake it’s a fair warning years ago I accepted this madness and called it not my own it’s better that he be drunk on Christ, said my mother than on what he used to drink we all agreed