Gypsy

Gypsy


Linda prepared for bed confident
she could not receive
bad news.
It was Thursday, bad news
was announced in dreams on Fridays,
After walking over to the drawer and taking out
the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors,
on the side of her neck for good luck.
Gypsies don’t read
each others palms.
They understand war casualties, letter writing in the fog,
black and white images that make you forget
the wind. She wasn’t going to think
about the fuzz on his back, think about how it spread
to his buttocks.
Teresa walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil.
She was so thin she was starting to look like phyllo.
The señora wants me to brush her hair?
Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Puttock
will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable.
Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain
about not telling me who the father is?
No señora, it doesn’t matter. He is an important man.
He won’t care of my baby. Teresa your pulling my hair,
how many oil drops did you put in the water?
It doesn’t matter.
You will work here until you’re due.



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz