Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Betsy Mitchell Martinez
Road to Puerto Escondido, December 31
They’ve got the old year stuffed
like an effigy of you, blue jeans, flannel shirt
filled with sawdust, straw hat shading
a withered face. They’ve propped
the sackdoll body in a chair on the porch
where bunches of bananas hang
from giant metal hooks, casting
sea-urchin shadows. I mix three Cuba libres
at the side table. Hard to end
like this? I ask. Not at all,
the doll says, uninflected. One drink
for me and one for him. One offered
with two cigarettes and a tissue-paper
flower to the patron saint
of this last day: (not you): Our Lady
Virgin of the Milk and Happy Delivery,
infant mouth to breast as if something new
could grow here. The old year nurses
his drink, but is eight hours dead
across the ocean.
146 ◆ Crab Orchard Review