Stony the Road. Harold J. Recinos

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СКАЧАТЬ where tiny

      Puerto Rican flags fill a small box

      pushed to a corner. Henry’s widow

      briefly smiles in his direction moved

      to know that every Friday Hector

      enters the bodega to buy the prettiest

      flowers on hand to show his devotion

      to a beloved grandmother living in his

      apartment who has never bothered to

      learn a lick of English. the place is

      jumping with people who never consult

      academics happy in their far away

      homes, theologians offering seminars

      about a distant God, and fancy uptown

      philosophers uncertain of what to call

      black faces, the subtle mysteries of

      barrio life, and the spaces where white

      words only gasp for air.

      The Crucified

      the nameless people who are

      the beautiful brown color of

      the earth, those hard at work

      for America’s gain, who fled

      the blade on other shores and

      here are daily silenced by hate

      will never break. if only you

      knew the Spanish they speak

      to Angels of a dismayed God,

      the freedom that stumbles in

      their dreams, the pain in their

      limbs, then you would know the

      hungering words they speak that

      yell darkness in days to come will

      sink into the marsh and not a shred

      of white wickedness will survive

      to hammer into pieces liberty and

      justice for them.

      The Cross

      I sat in the small apartment

      observing the brown body

      on a cross hung on the wall

      above a television set begging

      the face dripping dark tears

      if it’s true the trampled who

      shout up to heaven will have

      life through the Galilean nailed

      to a tree. I wondered for hours

      about that brown body expiring

      on the cross, the crime against a

      human being of dark skin displayed

      on a hill, a mother who cried for

      her dying son, the false charges of

      arrest that delivered him with

      hands up to suffering and death,

      how it all looks like what’s daily

      going down on inner city streets.

      I pondered long the tales of the

      Word stooping down into middle

      eastern flesh for all who need love,

      the calloused men of arrogance and

      greed consumed by sin, the ethically

      innocent who wait for their dream

      world to begin, then prayed for more

      than miracles. I sat content to see

      Jesus on the blistered wall, holding

      in my hand the last look of the mothers

      on the block who watched their kids

      carried off to jail, those who walked

      for hours on the streets and wanted so

      badly to meet the loathed brown savior

      who like so many black and brown

      children meet death on a tree while

      elated pale faces dance.

      God

      we looked for god on

      Rikers Island getting

      stabbed in his sleep,

      with ex-dealers in cages

      getting GEDS, pocketing

      a certificate of completion

      for spoken word classes,

      or talking on the cellblock

      with Tarzan.

      we looked for god making

      water into wine at the liquor

      store, on the moist faces of

      dope sniffing kids, in the alley

      behind the abandoned

      building on Simpson Street

      at night taking a good old

      wino piss.

      we looked for god at the

      Ortiz Funeral home where

      bitter eyes wept for little

      Carmen beaten into silence

      by her pimp, in the Gideon

      bible Tito lifted at the СКАЧАТЬ