Michael Smith

Maxine’s Cantina

I arrive at multicultural with a kind
of envy of the sort afforded those with no
culture and have wondered if that counts.

A deep dive into Ancestry.com
less productive than spear fishing
with a crowbar.

I know. I’m white and that should be enough
but like many of us whites
there’s been a subtler kind of diaspora
among the moving poor.

I won’t bore you with the size of our trailer
in South Tucson or the chorizo
and vodka breakfasts, the men
who filtered through my teen years
following mom home after her pub shift
like starved coyotes. The adult shuffleboard,
the beasts plaqued to the dark walls, the well lit
spirits arraigning the shelves, Lucky Strikes, cigars
senseless brawls, merciless and heartbreaking
country and western music—well, yes, a culture of sorts
but not as warm as some.

I understand this quest for origins,
going ever deeper to find something
redeemable, perhaps commendable. I love
how some love their people, love home,
the landscapes and moonscapes, the customs,
the tasty spicy casseroles.
I depend on them.

Enviable, the virtuous poor, but I was
overtaken with rationality, logic, a pale defense
against beliefs sewn in quilts, from generations
of shirts and trousers, some blood stained, some
cum stained. The most powerful omissions
the ones you never notice. You arrive at seventy
or eighty—this sense this sense—what is it?

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Michael Smith’s work has appeared in several publications, including Iowa Review, Seneca Review, Northwest Review, Pembroke Review, Water-Stone Review, Phoebe, Blue Unicorn (forthcoming), Avalon Literary Review, Bicoastal Review (forthcoming), Synkroniciti (forthcoming), Blood and Bourbon (forthcoming), among others. He is the author of Writing Dangerous Poetry, and the co-author with Suzanne Greenberg of Everyday Creative Writing: Panning for Gold in the Kitchen Sink, both distributed by McGraw Hill. He is a graduate of the MFA program from the University of Arizona and lives in Pomona, CA.