The purple passions of a merry menopausal

Purple hair, yet... what would your mother say?
Well, I can hear what my mother is saying right in my head,
por dios, niña, what were you thinking, qué ejemplo for your own
daughter, but it was my daughter who purpled my gray, with a mexicana
friend, they took a small brush and painted away while I sat,
having cooked empanadas for two days, empanadas de carne,
queso, guayaba, mixed with a bit of political satire, a song
or two, and the joy that comes from common dreams
in exile.

Exile in the fastnesses of a New England
primavera, with sunlight thrown in for good measure,
prim walking through the staid old halls of academe,
and the ebullience of my girls, latinas with large hips
and beauteous smiles, the laughter of the tropics,
and she of the fashion show, prancing around
in her myriad costumes, saying, how do I look,
all of them saying, love me, am I lovely, do you care?

We cared deep into the night,
through Sunday's common room extravaganza,
extravagantly toasting life and truth
and the real pursuit of happiness,
in the hips and thighs of the planet,
in the cunt of the earth mother, salty and spicy
as a fresh-baked meat empanada,
sharing what makes us women,
the ones who grunt out life, in blood and shit and glory,
not prim, not proper, but alive.