Specie

He’s always saying - your shower is exactly like
South America, or I miss the babies in France -
this to remind us we are not sophisticates -
like we could forget, many of us never left Tucson.
Mary did go once by van to Douglas,
calling on her dying auntie. Her mother
packed a picnic of yesterday’s chicken,
sweets wrapped in wax. They were home by dawn.

He needs this story, so she lies it to him in Spanish -
the room so dark she can’t hear the fan,
thrift-store panties sliding past pennies
that fell out of his jean pockets. Her smallness
might as well be crushed on stifled white sheets.

What a relief! I don't have to follow the rules today. This is a revision of a poem I wrote for class this semester. I sent it to a friend and he said it's too conscious of itself being a poem, and I have to agree with that. It still needs work, but this is where it is today.