Wildflowers are sometimes called weeds.

They have been mowed over,

Stepped on,

Poisoned

And torn from the soil-

All in an effort to extinguish them from the earth.

Somehow, they continue to grow,

and are stronger the second time around.

Standing erect,

Bearing seeds,

They are unconsciously proud.

Their beauty is constant;

Their faith undying.

Because their existence is uncertain,

They create their own certainty,

by spreading their influence across the land.





Drought ‘96

This long-winded, chain-smoking, curly-headed, small-assed waitress in NYC

serving fried cheese and other sandy sweating foods to wetted thirsty couples,

she says

‘they are big-boned, beef-bred, back-sassin’,

shorthanded, tall tales tellin’,

long-haired, hard-hearted and ruddy-faced,

those women from Texas;

You should know.’

But I am not of that breed and she can tell

just by looking at me.

Her Albanian boss says

the tight-skirted, cat- tatooed,

nose-ringed cupie doll

needs a big man to squeeze her

‘pretty girl like you’

can’t keep his large green cotton hands

in his pressed linen pockets.



His steady Dallas girlfriend,

jet-black hair, pockmarked skin,

fringed leather jacket,

jagged gritty nails, same red as her lips

won’t give him the time of day,

but he loves his Texas woman

walking barefoot on city concrete,

on calloused heels and toes

and fat flat inner soles

all touching down

on unforgiving ground

talking slow and slurred

as if she carried the Texas heat

in her limbs,

in her lipstick,

stowed away in her purse

tucked out of sight

behind the register of the cafe.

I am waiting

just waiting

for a to-go-cup

of tap water

hoping they don’t ask

for a nickel dime

quarter even

because I’m saving my money

to get back home.

And I’ll walk if I have to.


Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis~Mayorca