Sandra Cisneros is an American poet, born December 20, 1954
AT FIFTY I AM STARTLED TO FIND I AM IN MY SPLENDOR
Sandra Cisneros
These days I admit
I am wide as a tule tree.
My underwear protests.
And yet,
I like myself best
without clothes when
I can admire myself
as God made me, still
divine as a maja.
Wide as a fertile goddess,
though infertile. I am,
as they say,
in decline. Teeth
worn down, eyes burning
yellow. Of belly
bountiful and flesh
beneficent I am. I am
silvering in crags
of crotch and brow.
Amusing.
I am a spectator at my own sport.
I am Venetian, decaying splendidly.
Am magnificent beyond measure.
Lady Pompadour roses exploding
before death. Not old.
Correction, aged.
Passé? I am but vintage.
I am a woman of a delightful season.
El Cantarito, little brown jug of la Loterería.
Solid, stout, bottom planted
firmly and without a doubt,
filled to the brim I am.
I said the brim.
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DULZURA
Sandra Cisneros
Make love to me in Spanish.
Not with that other tongue.
I want you juntito a mi,
tender like the language
crooned to babies.
I want to be that
lullabied, mi bien
querido, that loved.
I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists,
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.
Say my name. Say it.
The way it’s supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you.
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REMEDY FOR SOCIAL OVEREXPOSURE
Sandra Cisneros
Seek a pirul tree and sit
beneath immediately.
Remove from
ears and tongue,
words.
Fast from same.
Soak in a tub of seclusion.
Rinse face with wind.
In extreme cases, douse
oneself with sky. Then,
swab gently with clouds.
Dress in clean, pressed pajamas.
Preferably white.
Hold close to the heart,
chihuahuas. Kiss and
be kissed by same.
Consume a cool glass of night.
Read poetry that inspires poetry.
Write until temperament
returns to calm.
Place moonlight in a bowl.
Sleep beside and
dream of white flowers.