Voices on the Corner. Harold J. Recinos

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      the bridge far, far

      away to the screaming

      dock that assembled

      the people with candles

      flickering into the

      night beside the

      lady whose five year

      old drowned. you saw

      them speak in tongues

      and cast cries to an

      invisible God who never

      misses funerals. you

      watched them pull the

      little girl from the

      river that kept her

      for three days cursing

      all the horror. you

      fell beside the child’s

      mother who snapped in

      the company of strangers

      her tears carried by

      a desolate wind.

      The Street

      have you walked the

      avenue where sidewalks

      turn red, and tenement

      windows never open.

      one evening I fell

      beside a motherless

      friend shot in the

      head for selling baby

      powder to dope fiends

      who had dried blood

      mixed with rage on

      veins craving a fix.

      death came to life

      on this street the

      pious only swallow

      with prayer, never

      minding the drowning

      sorrow of those only

      strong enough to sob

      in God’s city for the pale

      and sudden departures.

      will you walk a bit

      further into the corner

      night, where the people

      gather in store front

      faith to speak prayers

      before the dropping

      darkness, where no one

      sees us hunger, or thirst

      or reach for life beyond

      the ascending coffins

      and tolling bells.

      Piety Lost

      that church piety you

      claim to build life

      closer to God on

      earth has never

      more weakly felt

      the horrors that

      parade each day

      in front of us

      as kids are killed

      by errant cops

      in a world that

      easily unnamed

      the evil your belief

      once declared so

      real. the spectacle

      of such numbing pain

      now only makes you

      stutter that salvation

      is God’s plan for us.

      such piety must know

      the sobbing will not

      end should it ever

      come . . .

      Latino Town

      merengue music is being tapped

      rhythmically by tired work feet,

      drenching the hot sidewalk in sweat:

      it’s Latino town and the secondhand

      cars, the third and fourth ones too,

      are up on jacks being fixed and admired.

      it doesn’t make a difference on a sabado

      afternoon. it’s Latino town and grandmothers

      are emerging from the tenements adopting whole

      blocks, silently being everyone’s abuelita.

      it’s Latino town and the hydrants are at full force;

      scattered cans of Coke and beer are being

      gathered by little children,

      who run up to the old man selling piragua

      to ask that he open the ends so they can spray

      the water at each other, the buses, the

      buildings and have a laugh, such a risa.

      it’s Latino town and at ten o’clock this morning

      the Goya little league will begin to play against

      Bustelo’s little league, and it’s СКАЧАТЬ