Breathing Space. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ stones beneath their tired feet will

      have a place to live, and speak.

      The Star

      our hearts are full of

      care for the dark skin

      kids who want to be free and

      are certain God comes down

      from the lynching tree. if only

      you knew the thousands of

      stories giving you a reason to

      see, to live without lament, and

      never smell the rotting wood

      that chokes life from us? if only

      you knew these bleeding hands, the

      sick pouring from our knotted throats,

      our bodies trampled by indefensible

      hate? if only you knew this bitter

      bread, the longing in our flattened

      bones, the kneeling with bowed

      heads at the altars where we weep

      long prayers rising to heaven for

      our young dead? if only you looked for

      the bright star unveiling the terrifying

      hoods worn by those dancing round

      hanging trees? then, you would walk

      the streets with us refusing a world

      bursting with hate for dark skin!

      The Paper Weight

      on the night table, I saw a stone

      with many names scribbled on

      it carried by her across the border,

      used for a paper weight for the scant

      letters from home. her thin hands

      often reached for those huddled words

      that gently massaged her aching heart

      and reminded her of another country

      far away. about once each week she

      laid awake at night trying to remember

      whether or not she wrote a letter about

      life in Alphabet City, or the feeling of

      living like a mural with the names of

      the dead painted on the side of a building

      people could only see from a distance. heavy

      rains on the Lower East Side always made

      her wildly weep about being confined to hiding

      and slowly perishing in a world that never cared

      to learn her name. on the bottom of the stone

      paper weight, she wrote the name of her murdered

      brother, and a tiny prayer that said, “Lord, help this

      world see we are human beings.”

      The Trousers

      I wore rags on the block

      for school, play and church,

      treated them like a block of

      ice held in hand on a hot day

      I thought would never dare let

      me down by melting. when

      kids laughed about the puddle

      jumping pant legs, I tried a

      first prayer objecting to the

      impermanence pleading with

      God to stunt my height and

      keep me in those nice blue

      trousers—God didn’t listen!

      I wanted to explain how it

      was forbidden to object to

      slacks with courage to last,

      that paid weekly visits to the

      candles in church, absorbed

      many lessons in school, and

      could run quickly through the

      streets reading books aloud. I

      wore those raggedy things till

      they were almost shorts, then

      took them to Orchard Beach

      for a swim, scorched them in

      the sun, and lost them at last

      in an apartment fire, burn. I

      was surprised to miss them

      when I found a bundle of ashes

      with a dirty old tag in what was

      left of our place—like losing

      a good old friend!

      My Country

      my country where do you

      exist from sea to sea, how

      long will it be until liberty

      like the air breathed is for

      everyone, when will your

      national borders reflect the

      memory of Brown blood

      spilled, how long before your

      compass lets you march to

      our Spanish graves, where

      people СКАЧАТЬ