Consuela and Sean
Through the nursery glass
Carlos Montero peeks at Consuela,
his twelfth, in the arms of a nurse.
Pink as a peony
with brilliant black hair,
Consuela is raw, bawling.
The nurse takes Consuela
away to be washed as Carlos
digs deep in his denims,
locks elbows, gleams,
turns to me. I feel odd
in a suit and a tie as I
wait to see Sean, our first.
When the nurse brings Sean to the window,
Carlos Montero whips off his sombrero,
makes a bullfighter’s pass and beams.
“Senor!” he booms like a tuba. “Ole!”
Suddenly I’m as happy as he.
Donal Mahoney
