Two Poems

Traveling Husband’s Return

You say ghosts drifted into the suitcase you carried
from Venezuela to the country where
my cheekbones pressed against linen.
The smell of them drifted through the leather and tweed
like melting glaciers or awakening, so you threw it out
and finished empty-handed.

The scent lingered, you know.
It followed you home.
It is the scent of you walking
down the mountain road toward me—
me seeing you there through the window.

My brown hair like horse mane
is tangled and waiting. Your throat
makes the sound of a colt when you open it,
your cold blue lips parting like a planet
weak at the core.

You toss your thin grey jacket toward the bed,
come toward me, and disappear.

My Heart Belongs to Qdoba

Once a lady
sweetly said
I have a weakness
for flowers
and I wish
I had a weakness
so romantic
but mine is for burritos
from the place
where you stand in a line
against a counter
and tell them
That
and also that
and the verde one
and some cheese
and that’s
a difficult thing
to admit
to yourself
when even your
future
your 30s
begin to take shape
inside the charcoal
corners of your brain
and they look
like a hand
pulling
a red wallet
from a purse
and handing
a credit card to a
pierced cashier and
solemnly
lifting the
bagged burrito
and cradling it
delicately
under
one arm.