It’s winter and the world is ochre:
slashpines and sourdough landscapes,
crowded streets and empty beaches,
swollen with Northern relatives
like the porch screen residue
of this salt-caked canvas.
The bellies of the city
bloat with champagne and caviar,
and they convulse in laughter
when Grandma shatters a glass.

He watched them glow
from outside the picture windows
in the dull December sun.
He saw the pine lined with presents
and hot neon lights
as he hacked unwanted fronds
from their outdoor palms.
He tossed branches in a bin?full of green glass bottles
and little gold wrappers?with voluptuous cursive curves
in a language he didn’t understand.

In winters, he went from
foreigner
to alien.
Abuela crossed the border
on calloused bare feet,
but this season is for Long Island Grandmas
and first-class flights to Palm Beach.
There’s talk about plane delays
and bland in-flight Filet:
the true hardships of travel.

It doesn’t matter if you go to Catholic mass,
or count pennies to buy your hija a doll
with a stain on the dress
from the charity shop down the street.
It doesn’t matter if you have to borrow
dented cans of black beans
from hungry neighbors.
It doesn’t matter
because people still want their lawns kept
on Christmas.