Larry Ruth
Nōchtli, November
IM Irene
The roof beam sags at the High Noon Saloon
reminds me of the ranch in Ribera, Jody,
Rasheed, Esteban, and Irene, beans on the vine,
tomatoes ripening, we enter the old room,
original to the adobe, built in 1776, Esteban
tells me, forty years later, after four days
in Albuquerque suddenly I’ve arrived, viewing
roughed-out sheds and shacks, walls ramble,
topped with kiln-fired bricks, reverie wanders,
aroma and taste of green chile, Irene
was right, burritos from food trucks
on East Fourteenth just don’t compare.
Local flavor rafting over my tongue, I
head off to the Rio Grande, the bosque,
I walk to Old Town, on to the Rio Grande
tumbleweeds blown against an iron door,
chile ristras strung and hung from balconies
for good luck, or simply, the red of them, warmth
of the sun, now, in the square opposite
the Church of San Felipe, a quinceañera,
young women in fuchsia-colored dresses, grupo
of gaucho musicians serenades the women, turns
to guests, then to us. At the threshold of the old adobe,
dusk, saguaros and blue sky fade, distance turns
to night, a lightning strike illumines evening,
rain, and rose-red nōchtli on prickly pear.
(March 2021)
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Irene was a dear friend to me for more than 50 years. We met in Berkeley at Berkeley High in 1968.
I will remember her humor, her inquisitive nature, her generosity, her incisive wit, and her love. We will miss her.
-Larry Ruth