San Antonio Mary Makofske

San Antonio

The house seemed woven, like a shirt,

inside and outside seamless, white.

Arched doorways, rooms of light.

Hacienda, my father said,

but Aunt Bea’s house was small

for such a spreading word.

Kumquat, she called me, and Sweet Pea.

I’ll make you a Black Cow, she said.

I didn’t want to be.

She laughed and mixed me up a sea

of root beer with an island

of ice cream. Her right hand

caught my eye. The index finger

was a notch too short. I’ll rub your

back, she offered. I lay still

beneath that stump that kneaded

me so well. My mother’s voice drawled

out her words till they matched

Bea’s. So these were sisters, who were

children once. I was all ears.

Then it was dark, and I

could sleep beneath a million stars

on Aunt Bea’s cot set in the yard.

Next door the drive-in screen

rose over trees. And there they were,

the giant grown-ups in the air,

silent at last, a pantomime

of writhing, pouting, kissing mouths

I didn’t need to understand

or ever doubt.

Mary Makofske