'My Psychic History So Far' by Daniel Luévano

    
    

As long as we're on the subject of grandmas—

maybe mine had a psychic experience

while in psychiatric care at Providence,

                    after OD-ing again.

We would ask her, my mother and I,

"How was your day?"

and she'd say, "Oh, 611"

and we'd say, "Huh?" and she'd say,

"87" and we'd say,

"Did you like your dinner OK?"

and she'd say, "347"

and it was kind of like talking to the I Ching.

So maybe Grandma was an oracle we'll never crack,

'cause I can't say she ever really spoke to us again.

But you know,

nothing really supernatural has ever happened to me

                    and I'm kind of disappointed.

No abductors or precognition,

near-death or devils,

no dead or vibrating, electrifying cusp triggering recall in the atmosphere. . . .

And I've been such a buff,

                    since I was a kid.

Kids, you know,

dream about being superhuman, super-

natural—adults too,

                    and that goes for adults.

(published in The Expatriate, 1995)

'On Memory & How It Cannot Be Used As Data' by Jen Luévano

    

    

You see, the boy drops

onto his bicycle seat &

is gone before I see him

leave just as my grand-

mother left years before

we see her die.

It is this way with the living

who are lived

out & medicine takes them

into death with a heart

beat & some nurses

who administer each pill

to themselves before

putting the patient

to bed.  We all saw

this in the nursing home

as we watched our old

naked woman be untied

by the day manager

who was crying &

apologizing for her staff.

& so much food

on the floor -- just

like my grandmother

to throw down half

a turkey sandwich &

declare she will only eat

it with her mother, who

was my mother.

I can't even eat at Denny's

because the food, urine,

& disinfectant all

have wheelchair marks across them,

too.  We laughed as she re-

arranged furniture

in the night -- such a small

woman!  & that roommate

who shrieked "Now!  Now!"

& we just turned

our bodies against the storm of her

voice, leaning into the stiff rail of our old

woman's bed, hoping

the roommate would have

some family of her own

to write her name in the collars

of housecoats, because those

workers, you know, hate

all of them -- anyone could

see fear leak from employees'

sweaty fingers -- watch

as patient assistants became older

or get in a car wreck and be lodged

into a tight bed beside the woman

who was convinced I was her

granddaughter.  The boy

on the bike was just to get

me here, beyond the un-

answered prayers to the evan-

gelist who promised healing,

beyond hoping for her death

so I could have a family

again.  The boy did ride

past my house in those days, riding

down & up my street

until the last possible light

when he'd get up enough nerve

to look into my front window

just before he'd turn his bike up

the corner street and be gone.

(published in The Expatriate, 1995)