Luisa
Her father was crying in the photograph
Luisa had framed on her bare wall.
In the monochrome, dark, and faded print,
Two dots shone on his smiling cheeks.
His tears came not from pain but joy
On the day his darling Luisa was born.
Luisa never wanted to cut her hair;
The shiny braid swung across her back
In the mornings in misty Mexico
When she followed her father in the tall grass.
"You can help milk the goats," he told his precious,
When she was old enough to understand.
Then he smiled as she closed her fist and pulled
And pulled until the stream steamed in her pail.
She gasped and pulled again.
On the day she asked why they took the milk
The goat could use for its kids,
He told her that goats produce too much.
The tiny girl understood.
For eight years, Luisa drank the goat's milk
And gave the goat nothing in return.
It died on a morning in the middle of June,
Looking Luisa in the eye.
She turned and called her father
Who wasn't surprised.
The ranch was too small,
The ground too dry,
The crops too thirsty,
And the family too hungry.
He told his daughter to pray;
She was eight, and he left her at home.
Alone, he crossed the border under cover of night.
Her mother read his letters with tears in her eyes
Aloud, twice a month, for seven years.
Luisa had framed on her bare wall.
In the monochrome, dark, and faded print,
Two dots shone on his smiling cheeks.
His tears came not from pain but joy
On the day his darling Luisa was born.
Luisa never wanted to cut her hair;
The shiny braid swung across her back
In the mornings in misty Mexico
When she followed her father in the tall grass.
"You can help milk the goats," he told his precious,
When she was old enough to understand.
Then he smiled as she closed her fist and pulled
And pulled until the stream steamed in her pail.
She gasped and pulled again.
On the day she asked why they took the milk
The goat could use for its kids,
He told her that goats produce too much.
The tiny girl understood.
For eight years, Luisa drank the goat's milk
And gave the goat nothing in return.
It died on a morning in the middle of June,
Looking Luisa in the eye.
She turned and called her father
Who wasn't surprised.
The ranch was too small,
The ground too dry,
The crops too thirsty,
And the family too hungry.
He told his daughter to pray;
She was eight, and he left her at home.
Alone, he crossed the border under cover of night.
Her mother read his letters with tears in her eyes
Aloud, twice a month, for seven years.
__________________________________________________
The August sun is blazing on the girl's bare shoulders,
And her short, black hair is fire to the touch.
She holds her huge stomach, standing, legs apart,
On the brand-new land her father bought.
For seven years, his letters have addressed a child,
Not the girl expecting her own infant son.
When Luisa sees her father again, she won't recognize him.
"Seven years in a kitchen changes a man,"
He'll say and stroke her chopped, black hair.
She'll search his face, his wrinkled hands,
The dull green eyes, and sob, "I don't know you."
The August sun is blazing on the girl's bare shoulders,
And her short, black hair is fire to the touch.
She holds her huge stomach, standing, legs apart,
On the brand-new land her father bought.
For seven years, his letters have addressed a child,
Not the girl expecting her own infant son.
When Luisa sees her father again, she won't recognize him.
"Seven years in a kitchen changes a man,"
He'll say and stroke her chopped, black hair.
She'll search his face, his wrinkled hands,
The dull green eyes, and sob, "I don't know you."
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