JESS PROVENCIO // auntie

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auntie

seen    dis a public bus
kyan see and smell everyone from all ova
flip-flops in the rain
a windbreaker meant for climates with a drier spring
nothing she is wearing is waterproof
toes gnarled like tree roots
their joints swollen with arthritis
announce her advanced years
like the trunk of a transplanted tree
auntie’s bones miss the island heat

me naw unnastan buy a fruit a market
just pic a fruit a tree
now a haffi buy
in a country with 24 hour electricity
auntie’s arthritis doesn’t let her stand on her tiptoes
she can barely reach the safety rail when the bus brakes
her eyes squint from sun wrinkled leather
living in a place with too much smog

sore from putting in her years until social security kicked in
now she works more than full time
faded like the flowers on her blouse
taking care of the grandchildren
while her children go from job to job
she shuttles back and forth between houses
braving the elements in her inadequite clothes
the trail of her long skirt smudged with mud
while she remembers a life on the island
as vivid as the print on her headwrap.

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Jess Provencio received a degree in Mexican-American Studies from CSU-LA in 2009. As an avid reader, and a bilingual writer, Jess draws inspiration from people watching. Jess’ first published work, “you’ll never tip a go-go boy in this town again”, an anthology about West Hollywood, is available on Amazon.