MARCIA ROBERTS
Collagraphs




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Marcia Roberts has had three books of poems published by Skanky Possum or Effing Press, both out of hot-stuff Texas. Have a look at these fine presses.

We were able to further the Marcia run in Origin, 6th series, an on-line anthology of 1700 pages edited by Bob Arnold. The anthology is now available on CD.

Forthcoming will be a generous book of poems What She Knew from BlazeVox.

Marcia lives with her family in San Antonio.

photo courtesy: Marcia Roberts

MARCIA ROBERTS






from Autumn’s Slant


hey, vaquero, you got boots
my daddy never got me none
said he bought a pair once wouldn’t do it again
gave me a dollar let me drive the car


when the oil pan breaks on a rock, the father walks home at dusk
a good time for mosquitoes, fireflies, and crickets
kids lie on the lawn, picking at clover, listening
to stories how he shot coyotes from the saddle
and how a mad bull attacked him on horseback


~


longhorns derive from barrenda, the spotted ones
retinto, the reds, and ganado prieto, the fighters

stepping into la corrida

it’s me or you, sucka, let the snot roll off your snout
the blood run off your back onto the sand

los caballeros come from la Mancha y Extremadura
singing God, Glory, Gold, and making marks on cattle’s flanks


~


when the father is old one leg gone
he drives off in a cloud, checking on – S –
vaqueros siempre…..desde el comienzo no somos caballeros…..somos paisanos

moving herds north…..spreading mesquite
along the Chisholm…..all the way to Abilene


~


he didn’t wear a bandana or furry chaps
eat mountain oysters or lasso strays

don’t kid yourself, vaquero, my old man was a cowboy
chewing on a long stem of wheat grass

Lazarillo’s hidalgo picks his teeth on an empty stomach
Hernán Cortéz isn’t the caballero we think

the great warrior lies in Burgos
above the Missouri, the father resides

in sage brush, vaqueros wear tapaderos
and Lakota nod hasta luego

en este lugar . . .
there is no good-bye


~


We live where Muwekma Ohlone lived and danced. Elderberry flutes, bird bone
whistles, split stick clappers kept the beat until men from Sonora rode in.

You can see the end of the rainbow. Dark storm clouds push colors down to the
water, making one final glow.


~


at Farragut North the saxophone man plays Amazing Grace
others huddle on grates around the Corcoran

when the archives guard says there can be no spitting
Peg whispers, we’ll spit in our pockets


~


hollyhocks grow on the south side of gray stucco
mother and daughter cut blooms for a glass basket
and gather oatmeal-shaped seeds
planting them again and again


~


the beauty of the daughter overwhelms her
she wants the child to be her art, herself


~


when the mother dies, the daughter is 54
she looks and feels twelve


~


in a dream she tries to plant grass and flowers
on the east side of gray stucco
her mother tells her
grass never grew here and it never will


~


I cannot cross your name from my book
instead, I buy denim with embroidery and beads

come dine tonight with two lemons
I can make pie or cake
we’ll have wine and salad lasagna perhaps
or curry and rice expresso and Duque de Rivas
our speech syncopated
you remember one thing I remember another

and in the final morning dream
we’ll use the first words when the last words begin

Marcia Roberts is a native of South Dakota. Her books of poetry include Open Eye (Skanky Possum Press) and two fine new books from Effing Press: In the Bird's Breath and Autumn's Slant (effingpress.com). The above first appeared in Longhouse-Origin (sixth series). Marcia makes a home with her husband Len in San Antonio, Texas.