To The Young Couple
In The Booth Across From Me
You looked into
each other’s eyes
while above you
five televisions
blared five different
games and around you
Friday Night Happy Hour
cursed and howled and
waitresses in short kilts and
kneesocks danced past you
blouses molded to their breasts
buttons strained
trays balanced on hands or hips
the bar reverberating with
laughter
shouts
table slappings
chair scrapings
through all of this
you held each other
with your eyes
never touching
not with fingers or legs
you held each other
with your eyes
and made love
in a sacred way.
Tsi’sdu on the Desert
I smell sage and dust on the wind
spliced with the heat of the baked tarmac
and the tang of nail polish;
not much else to do but paint toenails,
one foot drying, the other
propped on the glove box
as we cruise the endless highway
heading nowhere special
just out driving
when a jack rabbit bounds
across the road,
you swerve and cuss,
gear down as
we tool off road
and into the sagebrush.
We bounce a fair distance,
the pickup snapping our bones
better than any chiropractor
our go-cups of wine spatter our jeans
the nail polish puddles the floor mat.
With a final lurch, the truck stalls
and I fall against your shoulder.
Out the windows a cloud of dust
settles on us like fresh snow.
All we can do is laugh at ourselves
and how Tsi’sdu, the rabbit, tricked us good.
You ask, Think the truck’ll start?
I raise an eyebrow, say nothing,
lay back against the seat,
still catching my breath.
From the west the wind picks up,
carrying the tart aroma of Honey Lake.
You wipe dust from my eyebrows.
I smell the fresh scent of your skin,
the linger of soap in your shirt,
taste the wintergreen on your lips.
Later as we drive back to town
I think to tell Rabbit, thanks, I owe you one.
Then Will I Stand
Night window, dark,
his profile etched
by the streetlight
he sits, hunched
in the wheelchair
hands clasped on top
of the warrior blanket
of stripes and buffaloes
I bought to ease his chills.
We wait for it to snow
though it is too cold.
We wait together
holding hands
we wait for the inevitable
for his long march to the stars.
Then will I stand,
his blanket around
my shoulders.
Then will I stand
under the myriad of stars
and hunt for his, for him.
Then will the wind bite
my cheeks and fingers.
Then will I bury my tears
in his blanket,
smell his memory,
hear his laughter.
Then will I stand
under the falling snow.
Author, storyteller, illustrator and poet, Linda Boyden is the author of The Blue Roses (Lee & Low Books, 2002). She is a winner of the New Voices Award, the Paterson Prize, and Wordcraft Circle’s Book of the Year for 2003. Her first illustrated book, Powwow’s Coming (University of New Mexico Press, 2007), is included on Reading Is Fundamental’s 2011 Multicultural Book List.
Giveaways, An ABC Book of Loanwords from the Americas (University of New Mexico Press), was a finalist for three International Book Awards and two New Mexico Book Awards, and was included in 2012 California Collections from the California Reading Association.
Boyden’s latest work includes Boy and Poi Poi Puppy (2013); Roxy Reindeer (2014), Winner of a Mom’s Choice Award; and Boy and PoiPoi Puppy, in Doggone!”(2016).
