Laredo rests on the Rio Grande just before it spills into the warm gulf. If you walk a few miles south, you'd call it El Rio del Bravo Norte. Pivot one way, and it's immense; turn another way and it's fierce, powerful, intense. How did one come to bear two names, in two different countries, in the same language?
And what do the bees call it?
Here, in the background of Suzette's poem, "Prairie Beekeeper," (FSR Issue 5) a thousand bees sing together, and well it's both grande and bravo.
His body tells you he’s worked on this routine
all his life: two hard dribbles
through baggy sweatpants,
two slow knee bends before he settles into a third,
eyes closed, head clear of anything
but this moment in which he lets out
a long, slow breath, mumbles something,
then becomes a sort of machine,
sets his feet shoulder-width apart,
squares those shoulders to the foul line and baseline,
to the half-moon backboard
cracked in one corner
before he opens his eyes again and fixes them
just over the rim, rusted, netless,
breathing in exhaust
and road dust as the ball settles
into the cradle his right fingertips make,
his bent wrist even with his glasses
before he hops and grunts
behind a gooseneck follow-through
and his grasp of the past flies free.