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
