Spilled Moonshine
In the month of May
we ski the debris:
dust, twigs,
broken branches
clumps of mistletoe,
pines cones and pine needles,
sun cups and sap,
everything but snow
it would seem
in the month of May.
But climb high enough,
doggedly enough,
and a sip of winter yet awaits
pooled among the rocks
like spilled moonshine.
–Tele Món, Shadowboxer II, 2020
Saving Bubba
Every day you train
to pull Bubba
down a mountain
covered in rocks and gullies
and caked in ice.
You do not hesitate to
ride the brake
and hipcheck the crossbar
looking for every advantage
against the great weight
of a slip sliding Bubba.
There is no flaming out
beneath this hot load.
No crumbling or folding–
the edges and thighs must hold.
Which is why you
train your legs to
Tele every day
in every way.
— Tele Món, Shadowboxer II, 2020
Hearts of Many Colors
It’s January 22, 2017
and my youngest son is four.
After two years of requests
I have permission
to take him up north
for a wintry weekend
instead of our normal routine
of spending two days
in sunny Albuquerque.
He bobs his head to the music
in the backseat
wearing heart-shaped sunglasses.
“Happy days,” I tell him.
“Happy days,” he replies.
At the house I start a fire
and prepare some food
while he waters the plants
in the sunroom.
After dinner
I set an oil heater up
in his bedroom.
“Bona nit, Papa,”
he tells me.
“Bona nit, my son.”
After a breakfast
of granola and yoghurt
we head to Sipapu
where I ski patrol.
After a career in the military,
I enjoy the peace of patrol,
the peace that comes of helping others,
the serenity that comes of the outdoors
and the high mountains in winter.
My son can’t stop smiling,
giddy with joy,
happy to see so much snow.
He discovers a broom
at the patrol shack
and starts brooming the snow
with conviction.
He plays with Lizzie,
throwing a ball for her
attached to a short rope.
He totters around
bundled up in his
blue Burton onesie,
mittens and Peruvian hat.
Lizzie pushes her snout
into the snow
searching for her ball.
I call his Àvia to let her know
what a wonderful time
he is having.
He returns to sweeping the snow
with the broom, singing..
It feels like life
cannot get any better
for us.
We share some snacks in the patrol shack
and say goodbye to the crew.
I promise to bring him back
as soon as I can.
Back to the house we are driving,
past snowy fields,
past horses and their meandering tracks,
revealing the story of their day,
when he says to me
out of the blue,
“I want to see you more, Papa.”
If only I can return to this moment
and hold my tongue forever.
“Look at the beautiful horses,”
I could have said,
to distract him,
of even something simple like,
“Me, too, let’s be patient and
things will improve with time.”
But I blunder.
I catch an edge
on the hard ice.
“Have you told your mother?” I ask,
glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” he responds,
swinging his legs in his carseat.
Fate offers me another chance
to hold my tongue.
A chance to recover my balance
and avoid this fall.
But I blunder on.
Without thinking,
I utter the words
that send us tumbling
down into the darkness.
“Well, maybe you can tell her again,” I say,
turning the wheel of the truck
towards the road
that leads to a home
with a well in the front yard
and an acequia
that passes below two cherry trees
with cherries so tart
only the magpies eat them
and a front door
he will never see again.
Neither of us know it, of course.
We are both too innocent,
too innocent of his mother,
too innocent of the biases
and prejudice of a court system
willing to stand on the necks of fathers
whenever a white woman calls wolf–
especially the necks of
dark men,
colored men,
bipoc men,
native men
with dark braids
and service records
stamped with
airborne wings
and ranger tabs
and crossed rifles.
“Ok,” he replies,
“I ask her again.”
The following morning
we drive to meet his mother
where she works in the city.
Our 48 hours are up.
An unspoken sadness accompanies
the end of our weekly visits.
In the car we are both quiet.
“I’ll be seeing you again in five days,”
I tell him, reassuringly,
looking for his eyes in the mirror.
“I know,” he replies.
I’ve forgotten our conversation
from the day before
but he has not.
As soon as we get near his mother
he gushes excitedly:
“I want to see Papa more!”
He is singing with his heart
these words, using all his courage.
The pale face of his mother hardens.
She says nothing.
She pries his small hands
from around my arms
and from around my neck
and sweeps him up.
Unsettled at her silence,
he begins to cry.
Still she says nothing.
Quiet as stone she walks away.
He looks back at me
through tears.
I feel a great and awful helplessness.
“He needs us both,”
I call after her,
not knowing what else to say.
Four years have passed since then,
and my son has become a ghost
of a shadow in my life
and I a shadow of a ghost in his.
I send him a letter every week.
They are written in crayon,
with heart shapes
inside and out.
I am allowed by the court
to call him twice a week.
Sometimes he answers the phone.
Sometimes he tells me
he hates me.
His mother monitors
his every word,
observing him
for any indication
of tenderness.
“I love you,” I tell him,
“One day we will play again
among the tulips in your Àvia’s garden
and eat plums and strawberries.”
Every Sunday I write him a letter.
I draw hearts on the outside
of the envelopes.
He’ll be eight in November.
The letters are all
covered in hearts
of different colors.
— Tele Món, Shadowboxer II, 2020
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