In his eyes, you could see a salesman's bounty.
Every time Papi looked at his Cordoba
you knew he knew it was not meant to be a family car

but a car for the left lane, with the window down,
with dashboard dice over the grey plush exterior winking back
at the ladies passing, peering in, as if they couldn't get enough of

My Papi, who always waited until it was the hottest hour of Saturday
to wash his Mami. He made it a holy act, a Sabbath ritual, a cup of overflowing
burgundy, felpa and Turtle wax, so shiny, it reflected back his face in the sun.

This was how he relaxed, never asking for help, all puffed up,
shirt front wet with the whipping hose, suds in his lashes,
as if a rainbow had kissed his eyes. Proud Papi

of the Chrysler Cordoba with the silver and gold siderails,
and the Chrysler insignia bent sideways on the hood from the time
he hit the bicyclist who looked the other way.

It never mattered to him that his back bent the same,
a brace to hold a slipped disc, incurred falling off an assault tank
the way Icarus thudded back to earth,

all melted wax and white feathers, body broken like a pigeon's heart.
Papi's too was like that, maroon and mystical, like the surface of
a summertime lake, sparkling with the loosed oil of drowned cars.

In ending this article, I have to say a few words about Jane's poetry. There is such longing, such braiding to familia, even if the price is heartache. There is, too, a sense of heroism, of dignity in the face of loss, and a profound sense of ordinary beauty in both the construction of her work and the lyrical images that are shot through it.

Article Author: Lisa Alvarado

Lisa Alvarado is a poet, novelist, and performance artist. She is the author of The Housekeeper's Diary, Reclamo, and Sister Chicas. In 2007, Sister Chicas was the 2nd place winner of the Mariposa/International Latino Book Award for Best 1st Novel in English. …

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