For Socorro Brantome

 

On those days going down

roads of dirt and sun

went covered wagons

the oxen yoke

unhurried down the hollows,

the girl sat with feet overhanging

looking, the dog behind

piñuela fields to one side, on the other the road.

The women inside,

the pots, the bundles of clothes.

The drunken men laughing.

And the big mama

with a scarf on her head

smoking silently, patron and matron

of all those who had

life or not around her,

ordering everything

thinking of everything

sitting on the bench

inside the wagon,

with those tiny eyes

seeing everything,

with her chubby large hands,

would make commanding gestures.

Halfway down the road

she’d decide to stop the journey,

light a fire and heat up food.

They make coffee.

The dog jumps happily.

The girl laughs.

They’d get big mama down

with bench and all

and find her shade.

The women would start to work,

the men squatting down

would light their cigars.

The big mama

with cigar in hand

and little eyes half shut

would observe it all.