THE SNAIL WORSHIPS THE TREE
Abook of poems
©1995 By Santiago Garcia
ISBN:0-9640612-5-2
Cover art by Santiago Garcia

Publisher:
CHILI VERDE PRESS
818 E. Magnolia Avenue
San Antonio, Texas 78212

Send orders to: THE RED PLAM
P.O. BOX 281
San Antonio, Texas 78291

Biography

Mother was a girl with new black hair.
Father was a stray dog
who said he planted a proud tree in the
public housing
where he was raised.

They fell together as their
young worlds spun and
I became.
Mom soon wore wigs
to mask her thoughts
and the grass died
in the shadow of their
heavy circumstances.

Dad stopped barking and soon bit a
chunk of my life
from the limb of time
that could not regenerate
no matter how much sun
saturated the primitive pruning.

It's not that I want to defy gravity,
carry several times my weight like ants,
prevent my soles
from wearing by flawless steps.
I'm afraid because sometimes spheres
collide and fall
away in smaller versions
of themselves.

88888888by Santiago Garcia
88888888(from The Snail Worships the Tree)

Evenings
Poems and Prose Poems

©1995 By Arturo Vasquez II
ISBN:0-9640612-7-9
Cover art by
Enedina Casarez Vasquez
CHILI VERDE PRESS
736 East Guenther Street
San Antonio, 78210

Evening

My wife and I share another meal. It is 9:30 and our
daughter is finally asleep in her room. The day has been
so long and hard that we eat off the same plate. We don't
speak. The sound of knives cutting through meat, forks
scratching the plate and ice cubes settling in glasses fill
the air as much as our silence. Even though I don't know
what time it is where you are, I imagine that you are
putting your son to sleep. I see you bending over his bed,
tucking the sheets tight. Maybe you are singing softly to
him. I see him look at you as he tries to say good night,
but you put your hand over his, raise a finger to your lips
and say, "Ssshhh." You turn around, walk to the door and
turn out the light. Only the moon lighting your way down
the stairs to the kitchen where your husband is making
supper.

The sound of dishes hitting the sink brings me back. I
get up from the table, try to help my wife clean up. We
don't need to talk anymore. Things just get done. As she
turns on the water and waits for it to get hot, I kiss the
back of her neck. She leans her head forward, turns off
the water. As we climb the stairs to our room, I hold her
hand tight and try to imprint on my mind every detail of
the night: the smell of sweat on her neck, moonlight
shining through the windows, the faint rustle of clothes
hitting the floor, all the ways the night falls equally on us
all.