Poetry
Zephyr
Each morning trumpeted into being with a chorus of baby squawks.Daffodils pushed through the barely revealed spring mud. Crusted snowclung to the curbs. In his crib, my infant son sucked his fistuntil he gagged. The polka dot mesh crib bumper that we painstakinglyselected surrounded him. In the afternoons, I pushed the stroller aroundthe block and …
An Exercise in Self-deprecation
You are staying at your poet friends’ placewhile they take their two daughters to Disneylandwhen you wake to the bumpingof moth against lampshade. Because you arealone at the bottom of a dirt road in a forest north of the city,you pad on the balls of your feet to the far end of the room,where the …
[My country will have no statue]
My country will have no statueof barefoot man-of-storm.I’ve shattered my tongue against memorywhen night cheated against deathin the game of boats and ports.Here lies man-without-life.Break the chains, smash the marbleand let all hands moor him to brassto preside over the rise of tides:my country will have no man-with-eyesdried-by-the-sea. translated by Nancy Naomi Carlson
On Power
I’d do anything for you, but you say: No, let me.I wear the pants, but you call the shots.I’m holding aces, but you’ve got tricks up your sleeve.I’m always big spoon, but you’re always on top. I wear the pants, but you look fucking hotin a skirt. I’ve read Rilke, but you’ve read Proust.I’m always …
Ten Reasons Why We Cannot Seem to Make Progress
As long as the cheerleader keeps watching the movie about cheerleadersand the businessman keeps a copy of The Art of War in his attaché case. As long as the money retains no memory of where it has beenbut keeps running like a river Until going to war is explained in terms of child development Until …
The Knife and the Knife
A knife loves a knife. It loves in midair, like a thing without feet. The knife that falls in love is not a knife. It is a magnet. Look at them shine as they draw each other in! Two knives scattering sweat let out a cry, cross each other for a moment in midair, lie …
Shoots
From Fatigas tropicales Tree, sprouts. Air, sprouts. Light, sprouts. I have pulleda cluster from my left eye. I rise and eat from curdled fruitsthat taste like Island. I fell the word Island and make a tableto organize my family and exercise the memory of my dead.Flesh, live again. Let crows feed upon youand regain their …
Vision of the Body
For Jorge Angel Pérez Why is it nowas we leave our youthand beauty behinddo I find the bodiesof budding girls and boysso beautiful,the irreverent gaze of others.Now that gray hairs show themselvesand my flesh is less firmmy legs less firmas they outrun death.Now that skin’s glowthe brightness in my eyesand smooth foreheadslowly recede.Now that my …
Some Photos
From Viaje de regreso IAutumn days.On my balconya bonsai blooms. IIMigrating birdslook for place. Somefind the wrong one. IIITenuous light in the courtyard.The clotheslineis a highway. Translated by Margaret Randall