Crepe Myrtles
by Rebecca Balcárcel

Those in full sun have
cracked open their round cases
and flounced out their ruffles,
hot pink vestidos.
They sway under el sol --
whole bunches! -- and unfurl their fiesta frills
from June to September.
We watch their salsas, their boleros,
their cha chas. "Mira!" my aunt shouts
every time we pass. And every time we pass,
they bob and curtsey, they twirl
their sizzling fringe.

This was my introduction to passion:
the flowers, the way they explode into
curls of crepe, and my aunt, the way
she soul-sings the old canciones,
right through drought,
through these long, tangled days after the accident,
sometimes through clenched teeth.
This is what I knew of spirit, espiritu,
that molten stream,
before I ever wrote a poem,
before it turned me inside-out, like the blossoms.