The only other successful poetry group I've known was in Huff's little Austin apartment. This group was called The Hyde Park Poets.
Huff always asked us to write a poem for the winter holidays, so I have done. It's more like a short short story isn't it? But I don't bother to worry about that. I'm worried about the mothers with children seeking asylum at our southern border, thrown into detention camps, let go with nothing to find their way across the country on long bus rides. This is about just one of them.
St. Nicholas' night is December 6. Where I was born, a German American town, St. Nic's night was still observed when I was a child. My own family didn't do it -- have us hang a stocking at the foot of the bed, December 6 -- but my cousins did. They were not especially good all year, these cousins, if you ask me, but even so they got nifty things in those stockings. If you haven't been good, St. Nic is supposed to leave you a piece of coal or bundle of sticks. The "old person" is sitting in for St. Nic, I think.
There are some Spanish words, but most of them are explained with English nearby. The blanket is in bright colors indígenos, meaning Indian. In ola de frío, ola means leaf, literally, but the phrase means a cold spell. Los jefes means the chiefs, the bosses (of the drug cartels, the police, local gansters, etc. They're all in cahoots.) No tenemos nada means "We have nothing."
It's really in two justified columns, and I like it that way, but it wouldn't transfer from Word.
(Saint Nicholas’ Night, San Antonio)
with child in her arms needing more warmth,
especially this daughter coughing, weariness