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
