deepundergroundpoetry.com
Aja Lia
"Behold the deepest light, of the tender fire"
-Saint Marco, 1664.
She likes to carry a bible.
I don't judge too harshly.
There's worse things.
As a child, in her home country,
she sold matchsticks by the bundle.
At twelve, they're expected
to sell them door to door,
where the lanterns were kept bedside.
Three dollars American, to them,
was a day's pay like their fathers.
But blue-eyed buyers got a break.
Because a pale-eyed baby would be a ticket
to the promised land.
So they thought, from hopeful rumors.
Yet, did any of them
ever get to leave that way?
At fourteen, the Catholics came.
No more match girls.
They were liberated from that fire,
so was promised.
They were then called house cleaners.
One broom, for each.
If it was forgotten
inside a dark lit room,
it was taken out of their pay.
The old women would bundle some straw,
and hand them another one.
And, no more eating goats.
It was considered unclean.
So no more meat,
even though they only had it
Friday to Sunday.
No cows, here.
But there were plenty of fruits
and vegetables
to rummage through,
after the trucks took their fill away.
She joined the Mission,
learned English from the bible.
Refined her ability, as a young teacher,
learning as she taught those
barely younger than her.
But her family sent for her.
Her father was ailing,
a broken back.
Her brother had went to the coast,
for fish
and never came home.
No.
She'd found her place.
16. She was to marry
a young man that
her parents and his
agreed upon.
She would get to meet him
at their wedding.
In trade,
her parents would get a mule
and a promise for glass,
for the house windows.
She fled, in the caravan
of missionaries,
to California.
They'd hide her,
within the halls
and myriad of columns
with so many other
trapped souls.
Her trust got her two sons,
that went to proper homes.
How would she really know, though.
At least at night,
she was allowed
to sleep only with hope.
An uncle came looking for her,
he was dressed very well.
Yet she had no uncles.
So she fled,
blind into the rest
of America.
A bus got her far;
Thirty years of anywhere
but there.
So, here.
Right next to me.
&
I'm fixing her fence.
It's the fifth thing
I've repaired for her.
She offers to pay every time,
and I tell her that her smile
makes us even.
She is beautiful;
The scars on her cheeks
and the knots on her hands
and the dark holes
in her eyes
where her sons should be.
I wish I could give her
everything back.
But I can't.
Yet I will fix
everything she ever asks
of me.
The fence is done.
No one is getting in
(It won't stop anyone).
We stumble through
another conversation.
Neither of our English
is very good.
For different reasons.
The air around me became static,
I can't explain.
Words stop at woken blood.
-As she touched my arm
during her mid, comfortable sentence.
I'm sure it broke her shoulder
and cracked her elbow,
to do such a simple,
impossible, thing.
She just freed a fraction of herself.
An incidental gift for me.
I wanted to kiss her,
to top off this miracle.
But I knew that even strays
don't accept just anything.
Some people lace it with poison.
She opens a door,
from the corridor of her fear.
They're still coming for her,
the men with black badges.
I want to tell her, so bad,
about this other phone that I carry;
There's a hundred and four
of me.
Do not worry.
But then I'd just be like
one of those
that she flees.
She lifts a smile
(Her shoulder is okay).
She mentions coincidences.
I scoff
(It's what I do).
Of course it's purely chance, that
we're in the same country
same state, same city,
same neighborhood
during the same period of time
and your fence needed mending
and I knew how.
And that just maybe your God
approves of me.
She offered me her bible,
in trade, good for good.
But I knew that
it's full of just as many demons
as it is angels.
-Like a rock song;
Play it backwards,
it's a much better outcome.
Hold on to it, Aja Lia.
I'd just use the pages
to roll a smoke.
She closed the screen door on me.
As I walked away, though;
"My kitchen light, it's too dim"
"Okay, maybe tomorrow"
"I will make you lunch"
"You don't eat meat, but
how about some ice cream?"
"See you then, Saint Marco".
And now,
my head is burning...
Who the hell is this woman,
that God has sent to me.
~~~
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 13
reading list entries 7
comments 26
reads 583
Commenting Preference:
The author is looking for friendly feedback.