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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Monday, February 17, 2014

Lucky



They say that Marisol was born with
la suerte
Ever since she was a penqueña
luck followed her
like a hermanito

They say that when Marisol dreamt of numbers
her tío played them and won
She carried a rabbit’s foot on her key ring
wore 3 azabaches around her neck
and had a statue of the Virgen María in her yard
because, even with la suerte,
you can never be too careful
No sense in leaving a puerta abierta
for the mala suerte 

The day that Marisol met Marco
he was cursing at a flat tire in the rain
Marco didn’t believe in luck
or dreams
or God
He believed in logic,
rationality,
proof

When Marco left his hat on the bed
he laughed at Marisol’s scolding
and he never hung the medal of San Cristóbal
from his car mirror either

But they say that when Marco first kissed Marisol
he was heard to whisper, “Dios mío”
After that, he believed.

10 comments:

Marcoantonio Arellano said...

hay, lolamouse, gracias for writing about me. you do know my name is marco, no? this made me feel good

buena suerte, mi amiga

Kerry O'Connor said...

I wish I better understood Spanish to fully appreciate this poem - but it sounds very passionate!

Brian Miller said...

ha. of course he did...and hey my two years of high school spanish came in handy...smiles...very cool

Marian said...

love this. muy bueno!

Susan said...

I know just enough Spanish to stretch to the rest in this rocking poem of transformation. Marvelous story!

Fireblossom said...

Oh yes, I bet he was converted, then! What a delight.

Robert Bourne said...

brushing off my high school Spanish (two Swiffers worth)... there is a sensual quality to the conversion... enjoyed this very much...

grapeling said...

liquid and luscious, lolamouse :) ~

Susie Clevenger said...

My my...there is heat in this...love it!!

Margaret said...

Quite the kiss!