Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, Ph.D. |
Poet/Scholar |
by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, in Pivot |
The Blue-Ringed Tower in El Centro, CA for Linda Lopez McAlister
I left for El Centro in the month of January, when the gulls were chunking eels in Sheepshead Bay.
The first hours in the deep Imperial Valley stood brilliant on corundum, emery, quartz. I awoke the second day to an adobe garden, was enchanted by wrought-iron and roses and the smooth trunk of a palo verde. Soon a hummingbird struck the lush midair near a vine, and with a yellow whirr scraped the space,
chopped out a niche, flailed it wide enough to vacuum-pack a small wooden saint or (a later thought when love had somewhat shrunken me) to be filled with the half-million poor in nearby Mexicali who were pinched dry by chollas
and might be held for an instant in the hummingbird's hollow as a nest-egg for a poem.
I. On my daily drive to Calexico, I passed a broad tower a hundred feet high, banded near the top with a blue painted ribbon.
The lower desert was drawing me, but I resisted the dry immersion.
II. The turquoise-ringed tower on one sleepy trip became the knuckle of a Mexican cacique exiled in anger nine foreign miles from home.
I gorged on the neighborhood's carne asada cooked over fire in the fiery afternoon in the tough shapes of iguana, and I licked at beer salty as the mineral world.
III. The tower then was a bride's thumb, dreamily belted by dust and blue satin.
In the season when tons of carrots were hauled from the Valley, and the sky very dark, cattle feedlots silent, I fought a minor earthquake, noting at dawn the long watery gleams on the patio at the pool's narrow end.
IV. Whoever was it told me - sotto voce - that the tower was a cauldron, that it burned elements to remake deserts? I saw a startling power (speeding home one night) as its blue-bricked fist stretched towards a comet.
Wearing thick sneakers as advised by the postcards in arcaded shops I went down into the desert the week it was "a carpet of bloom." Although two or three spines ▸ pierced rubber and skin, among whispered hisses I hopped and pulled them out, and my first gray coyote flashed over the carpet like the shadow of a moment's tree.
V. As for the tower, it wasn't a tower, but a vat, the biggest in the Valley; through irrigant pipes it rained on the fields, and the owners of the nitrate plant had hung the bracelet on it.
At Easter break, in Mexicali, a beggar sang Canción Mixteca, blind, grazed thin by the half-million: "¡Qué lejos estoy del suelo donde he nacido!" ("How far the place where I was born!") I bought the blue song, and some stone rings for my mother and sister, and a multiflowered tin-framed mirror.
VI. Then I learned, at last, that high in the air the robin's-egg circle had been painted precisely at sea level.
And on the daily drive to Calexico that blue bangle was a miracle, caught on a post that was nailed deep as my Datsun in the Valley, a sapphire hoop waiting to sail straight east or south or west, through caves below the mountains, till it came to a perfect skim on open water, always, now, touching the foam and never scooping so much as a drop of the Baja Bay or Mexican Gulf or Mediterranean or Indian Seas,
faithful to its path, a delicate performance. |
Copyright © 2008 by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio All material contained on this website is copyright protected.
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