After Eden. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ the lost look on the

      pale faces of Roman collared priests

      trying to figure out how to name the

      things they really love. dear brother,

      I adore the way yesterday hands me the

      splendor of such things, how that time

      never yelled at us for speaking Spanish,

      or having sweet brown skin. I have the

      pleasure of such days with you inside

      of me, which lets me laugh in a world

      too often dressed for mourning.

      Rudy

      I learned to walk the streets carrying pieces of the moon

      in my pocket to light the dark, lumbering along the avenue

      thinking about the Lord without a single piece of the promised land

      priests talked about in mass and grandmothers whispered was closer

      than my brother. I passed the troubled church bells not far from the lily shops

      on Jerome Avenue and the windy spot where you dear brother lifted your eyes

      to the Cathedral that forgot your name long before you sighed a last

      good-bye. I learned to walk along disbelieving good news, aware the

      filthy streets were closer to me than the sweetly silent Lord. I walked the

      very block where you were delivered to the arms of death, stood quietly on

      your exit stain beneath the stars, and said your name however foolish the

      sound for the ears of the One who too expired before his time at your very

      age in a place called Golgotha.

      Lost Name

      you have been here long

      enough to lose your name,

      wonder about the looks of

      of the world escaped, the

      last dirt road walked in the

      shoes you wore across the

      border, and the long night

      of saying farewell. you have

      been here long enough to say

      the fortune-tellers at the little

      church know too little about

      your world of laments, the

      loss of a mother to a soldier’s

      gun, your sister skinned by

      his bayonet, and his death

      dealing shots responsible for

      making orphans with dirty

      cartridges that everyone knew

      were American made. you have

      been here long enough to hear

      the whispered words of those

      recounting measureless pain,

      the terrifying images of Jesus’

      followers hanging from trees,

      and to complain to God who

      circles the stars with justice

      never seen. you have been here

      long enough to demand an end

      to the evil done by the crooked

      money-grubbing bunch so far

      from God—the witnesses who

      weep with you know!

      The Apartment

      for many years she had lived

      in the slum inside an apartment

      wrapped in colorful cloth carried

      from another country, receiving

      friends on plastic covered living

      room furniture into the deep night,

      brushing the dust from the papered

      roses carefully placed in pots in the

      corners of her three rooms, never

      giving a single thought to two jobs

      held packing coats and cleaning

      floors, unconcerned about the

      feint light from the neighborhood

      sky barely making its way into her

      bedroom window, and kneeling before

      an altar of religious relics to strain

      after answers all day. for years she

      had lived in that apartment waiting

      for the mighty tears of God to pour

      on the edges of her far-off world, to

      flood sidewalks toward the promises

      of this worldly glory, carry her in the

      untainted currents of praise, and widen

      her heavy heart with sweetly packed

      mysteries. in her tiny paradise in the

      old tenement that some would say is

      unbearable, she listened for the wind

      to fly strongly into her dark rooms to

      turn her in sleep with good news from

      the mountain top—I just love to sit with

      her listening, too!

      The Border

      I СКАЧАТЬ