Delia

Dusk ignites ribbons of orange flames
fingering the sky as I drive her home,
the end of another lesson. Her mobility teacher
for three years, I’ve preached the gospel
of safe travel, how to arc her cane
to find curbs and poles,
press the pedestrian button
then listen to the sing-song
of north-south and east-west cars.

With each session, she planted
her five foot frame on a corner and stood,
a silhouette in the afternoon sun,
black hair riffled by a breeze.
She aced the crossing cues, the surge
of parallel cars, the patterns of traffic flow.
But the boom of trucks startled
as if clamor alone could flatten her.

Still she propelled forward
past the shadow of a syndrome
that steals eyesight and even life,
each tentative step closer
to a kidney donor.

This autumn the organ match has taken,
her harvest bountiful
and her skin glows golden.
As dry leaves rattle under her feet
she casts aside her doubt,
stored from past winters
and marches across the street to college.

Jake

Thick brown hair
frames a round face
and blue eyes milky
with glaucoma.
As his padded body lumbers
forward, like a big wave,
a Braille map to Foster’s Freeze
spills from his binder.

Jake hears the swish
of students passing.
“I’m off to Algebra II,” he says,
muttering formulas.
A new moustache
arcs his smile.

He taps his cane
on the sidewalk,
stubs his toe
then bumps into a pole.
“Oops, I’m sorry,” he says.

At lunch break
he weaves
between buildings, alone
selects a spot,
twirls his cane skyward
as if to cast a spell on himself
to leap over treetops.

Peace Corps in Lesotho

Lesotho was children saying in English,
“Good morning, madam, five cents, please,”
and Lesotho was explaining
to high school students
why Americans don’t have a totem
or pay a bride price.

Lesotho was viewing A Man for All Seasons
at the cinema with the reels out of order,
and Lesotho was observing protocol in court
wearing a dust rag on my head
since I forgot a head scarf.

Lesotho was a toothless woman
praying for my health
with a twig held over me,
and Lesotho was a village chief
providing shelter from a cloudburst.

Lesotho was feeling the pulse of the earth
washing my hair in a fresh rain puddle
or hiking until parched enough to drink warm Coke,
and Lesotho was drumming the rhythm
of rain and drought.

Lesotho was singing the song of life
with children, at weddings, at funerals,
and Lesotho was dancing the dance of life
at the disco, the vender’s market
while tilling the soil.

In Lesotho, the singer never stops singing
and in Lesotho, the dancer never stops dancing.