My mom told me to stay away from you,
the guy who steals cars. In the village
all called you "car thief."
Half a century later we still do not know
your name. Your name, yes, -
Mohawk name that uses a known thief.
But for me, car thief, always going to be
your name only. You'll be that guy
twelve, fourteen, sixteen burning
gums down the street from the school, while I
you looked behind the white pine used
climb. "Hey, Sexy Susy," you said laughing
leaning over one of the windows down,
"Come on, baby, Come for a ride with me!"
I I stared at him, clinging to the pine,
perhaps of how longed
embrace you for you, but what did I know?
silky pine thorns pricked me
the face while trying not to smile when
were throwing kisses me crazy, roaring
between my house parents
brick school and crap.
car thief, do you suspect
I thought your beautiful skin -
was the color of the clay of Catskill and your black hair was
as the mane of wild horses that wanted me?
Your hair flowing over your shoulders challenging
before that became fashionable white boys
long hair! My mom had warned me,
so I never knew the depths
of your flesh, your smell, your touch, but the rough
bark, sap, sun-hot needles
that your theft tattooed on my virgin skin.
car thief, one day left
stop in our narrow street.
My mom said you locked
in a reformatory for juvenile delinquents.
I escaped to the street, I thought
she lied. Expected to hear "Sexy Susy!"
the chrome shine of your tongue,
ready for a ride in your red convertible,
with the top down, our hair tangled
a wake without tears in the wind.
Car Stealer
My mother told me to stay away from you,/ the boy who stole cars./ In our town/ everyone called you Car Stealer./ Half century later I still don't know/ your first name. Last name, yes ~/ Mohawk name a well known chief holds./ But for me, Car Stealer, it will always be/ your name alone. It will be that boy/ of twelve, fourteen, sixteen burning/ rubber down School Street where I/watched from white pine I used to / climb. “Hey, Sexy Susie,” you laughed/ through one of many rolled down windows,/ “come on, Babe, go for a ride with me!”/ I gazed down, hugging the pine/ the way maybe you ached for me/ to embrace you, but what did I know?/ The silky pine needles teased/ my face trying not to smile when / you blew me crazy kisses, roared/ between my parents' house/ and brick school we both hated. / Car Stealer, did you suspect/ I thought you beautiful ~ skin/ color of Catskill clay, hair black/ as manes of wild horses I cried for?/ Hair streaming past defiant shoulders/ before the white boys made long hair/ a fashion statement! My mother/ warned me, so I never learned the deeps/ of your flesh, scent, touch except rough/ bark, sap, sun-heated needles tattooing/ your thefts into my virgin skin./ Car Stealer, one day you stopped/ speeding down our narrow street./ My mother claimed they locked you/ in a place for juvenile delinquents./ I stole out to the road, believing/ she lied, waiting to hear “Sexy Susie”/ sparkling like chrome off your tongue, / ready to hitch a ride in a red convertible, / top down, our entangled hair/ tearless trails in the wind.
Susan Deer Cloud ( 1950, Livingston Manor, New York), Car Stealer, FootHills Publishing , 2010.
Versión: Griselda García ©
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