D.M. (Diane) Chávez-Solis

Shark Teeth

The atmosphere seemed to hiss and snap about them 

as they teased a rhumba down the walkway to the gate

on their way to some party. It felt like lightning was arcing

and striking through the hearts of surrounding trees. 

Another week of struggle and monotony buried, 

could we find our future selves in their wake?

So smooth and crisp their dancing--so something else 

hours later, like the bottles that would gather in the sink 

making row upon row of jagged shark teeth.

Our parents taught us how to rhumba. Which of them

beguiled most depended on the time of day or night, 

on many things. His elders were tall, white, bronze, 

and gold with European aristocracy and an Aztec prince 

in his line. Physically, he was elegant and forceful

--young Ryan Gosling morphing Jason Momoa. 

Hers claimed Irish and First Nation ancestries, but she

and the rest of their progeny lost track. Some of his

and hers were harsh as barbed wire, thistles, weeds.

Our parents were most captivating while they danced, 

although they would be so     something else altogether

when the party was over, when the hot record warped

and the bottles broke, jealousies going molten…

But sometimes, on a Friday or Saturday night 

after a few drinks, they might sing as they circled,  

he, in a surprising falsetto, delicate bolero harmonies.

And when they got snitzied-up to go out to a party--

clean-shaven, he’d taken the one really long shower

indulged in a week, she’d put on lipstick and stilettos,

curled the cool waves of her Katy Perry blue-black hair 

--we gawked, my little brothers and I, and neighbors

watching through sheer curtains from across the street

while Dad and Mom took their time stepping and rolling

to the rhythms in their minds, gliding down the walkway

to the gate, the air all but hissing and snapping about them

striking the hearts of young trees, as they shimmered

into the car and cruised away…

Her Father’s Doves

Her mother came home from errands to find him standing

in the yard, listing like the leaves in the surrounding trees

that were near falling, his head downcast. Did he weep,

holding a soft dead dove in his large rough hands? “I

couldn't save it," his voice faltered as she approached. 

Two crows had caught and attacked the dove--he ran

gasping, his old lungs so depleted by then, down the slope

of their driveway toward the attacking crows on the lawn 

across the street. He chased off the predators to gather

the creature, still moving in his palms, and carried it home

--hoping to help it if he could. He’d saved others before,

as recent as spring, a rock dove with a damaged wing.

He put up a tent in the back yard. After weeks, it flew 

and he soon released it. Yet this dove stopped moving--

he’d tried to massage it with gentleness he reserved

for his daughter and grandchildren, tried to support

and sustain the faint heart that was beating, then not 

beating, where the dove rested in his giant hard hands.