POEM OF THE DAY
LIST OF ALL POEMS
December flows in a wave
always images of La Virgin
winter roses, jacaranda
in cypress branches
watching late processions.
Our Baptist friend calls these rituals
pagan, shaking his head at
lighted candles, nacimientos, muttering:
Smiling, a girl of thirteen translates
for her mother. Nada, she says,
Nada. Her tongue between bright teeth
as she sounds the lisped D
breathes out the rich Ah
making the word echo in the darkening air
with another meaning
we almost remember.
"Nada" © copyright 1998 by Michael Hogan. Reprinted from Imperfect Geographies (Q-Trips, 1998).