June, 2001

Evolution   ©

by   Angela D. Stancar 
 

 
In this greasy traveler's diner in New Mexico,
I suck melted cheese
from inside a flour tortilla,
kick my unlaced shoe back and forth,
peel my sweat-drenched thighs
from the green vinyl booth.
My father pays the bill
with what little change he carries.
Balancing my toddler sister on her knee,
my mother twists her wedding ring
around her heat-swollen finger,
balls her hands into tight fists,
some kind of prayer that once we get to Wisconsin
Goodwill hand-me-downs
will be over.
I kneel before the dusty metal barstools,
searching for divinity in this desert cafe,
prickly leg hairs sticking to the tacky floor.
I peel back my mother's craggy fingers
and search for what remains of us--
tattered suitcases,
faded ID tags with no forwarding address--
washed ashore on this Albuquerque Sahara,
half-shelled mollusks
searching through dark waves
for air.

Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry Society's
Award Winning Poems 2001
and used with the permission of the Poet.

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