Chimayó, NM



as if we can’t have that word,

added, not added,

at least in a way that might

reflect complexity,

instead we have the Family Dollar

down the street,

the one the addicts hold up weekly,

the one with the particle board,

more window than window,

but the store opens again,

and this time, when I go in

to pick up whatever, usually popcorn,

usually matches, usually 5 lb bags of sugar

we say for the hummingbirds, and we mean it,

most of the anything sugar goes quickly,

but not for the hummingbirds,

for the addicts and their cravings,

when I go in, there’s an older woman

behind the counter, wrinkled mouth,

spindly cigarette fingers counting change,

saying, “Dearie,” to the white folks, “Mijito”

to the skinny awkward young man in front

of me buying cigarettes, red vines, and Doritos,

his hand on the counter, balancing like an old man.


Everyone knows this grandma, she’s related,

maybe a last ditch deterrent to another armed robbery,

unlikely employee compared to the last three

who were big guys who didn’t speak much at all.


Not like the bargains have that kind of value,

like the magician trickster on the street corner

where there’s no way to keep your eye

on the marble in the cups, no way to win.


The value beyond surface tension, veneer, façade,

over European surnames, our medieval history,

the insular nature of lives in one place,

within these borders, skin and land locked.