READING ©

READING   ©

      by Camincha

I don't want to read 

all there is to read. 

Really, I don't. 

All these lovely stories 

that sound so charming.   And 

often end so common place. 

I write them myself.    Of course 

not commonplace, though! 

Really don't want to read other's 

except they beg me.    Like a kitten 

scratching at my ankles 

for attention they beg me to caress their 

lines with my eyes.    To share 

their turn of events.    To turn the page 

and keep up with the story.    I do, and feel 

good afterwards, like when I share 

a cup of coffee with Mary even though 

I should have gone on with the house cleaning. 

Turning the pages I find about foreign 

lands exciting characters, though more 

often than not about people like me who also 

enjoy and survive and hurt and read about 

                         others like me. 

                                END

Miraflores

Miraf'lores, Lima Perú   ©          WORDS  209              LINES 29       

                                       by Camincha

I come down to the Coast that has the seducing curves of my

morena, who sings, Tamales calientiiiiiitos!!!!!!!! Through

the streets of my city on Saturday nights. And the voice

of my cholo with his eagle–beak nose, skin the color of mud,

my color. My Inca whistles at my door. Sharpens my knives and

       scissors big and small.                          Miraflores.

I come down to the Coast. To blue, green eyes. Full bearded

Europeans. The cafe latte skin of my criollas and criollos. To

flat streets that roll to the ocean. To its white foam. To the heat

of its shade. The tears of its garüa. The corner of La Picaronera.

The callejon next door. The European chalet. The Gardens of

La DiagonaL Ice cream from D'onofrio. The church across

Parque Central. The benches of Alameda Pardo. Sunday's

promenades. The British-Peruvian school, blue uniform, hat,

white shirt, red tie. Ferocious exams. Matinees at the Excelsior:

       The cowboy and the girl. .                             Miraflores.

I come down to the Coast. I take El Expresso to go to Lima, El Urbanito

to El  Mercado Central, to La Tiendecita Blanca where our mothers

bought Chantilly Creme to decorate birthday cakes, and still serves

butifarras, paltas rellenas, tamales, empanadas, humitas. Memories jump

through the intersection of' Larco and Pardo, f'ive blocks in diameter,

with a rainbow of flowers in its center. Walk to Schell St. where my school,

San Jorge, used to be, then to Porta St. that saw my growing up years.

El Terrazas Club still a block away, looking forward to its next Carnavales

Festival. Would you like to dance? sounds in my head. Dance? His

eyes full of  adoration. EI Malecón gives me his cliffs that roll to the

Pacific while the scent of jasmine, dahlias, sweet peas, honeysuckle,

       sweet  narcissus, stalk my steps … Miraflores, my Miraflores.

                                                          END