Yerbabuena

She’d run her hands along the stem
as if it were a braid of rosario.
She’d cup our noses in the
pocket of her palms so we’d
take in the scent of chicle,
that slight sting of clean.
Sometimes deep in summer,
in her unairconditioned
house, we felt the mint carry
ice to our knees folded
on the couch, where
the TV pictured
noticieros or baseball
and we listened
to the undercurrent
of chicharras singing.
In my back yard
there is a corner of
yerbabuena,
which is to say
of my grandmother.
My children pick the
leaves, rub their
emerald silk, and absorb
the soft wild of
my grandmother released
by their fingers
to visit our world.

 

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Amanda Rosas is a poet who draws strength and creativity from her Mexican roots and from her husband and three daughters. Her work has been published by The Latino Book Review, Front Porch Review, and The MockingHeart Review, among many others. She lives in Golden Valley, MN, and dreams of becoming a full-time writer and storyteller.