Letter to Jorge Teieller from the USA

My grandfather never sang to the black roots of almonds.
He never spent cold days, as I do, in rocking chairs.
I write in India ink; his home was the city. His garage held a truck.
He endured the wind driving, elbows tucked in, cigar lit, cursing Ike.
My grandfather was an orphan and an immigrant. The morning was a vast chunk of Kansas.
A plow. A bottle of whiskey.
Those years even God didn't know him.

My father appeared one day in Chevy grease in the California garage.
Grandfather went on playing poker in the dining room with smoke and linoleum.
My father sat alone with Orbison records while other boys tortured stray cats in the alley.
Put tiny mirrors on their shoes to catch the secrets under girls' skirts.
Father dreamed of being an accountant, of seeing the Badlands from an RV window.
He watched the news. I was born between programs.

I tried to touch earth but only found the wet sod of suburbs
which sounded like basketball hoops and GNR tapes.
I never heard desire in that dirt, food or destiny or maps or dreams,
never knew the language to speak with onions.
I knew telephones as small as minnows, things that were inexplicable but somehow sustained us,
I was told, but still felt despair, saw my parents almost die of silence in front of the television.
I watched storm clouds; felt drawn to sparks; took lovers.
I go on placing my hands in every stream, crouching under pine boughs in the snow, testing berries.
I look for things that I can touch: there is no other escape.
I will sew my daughters' dresses.
A hearth will be lit.