the children in the class strayed away
from the morning lessons, the teacher
called them back to the lost paradise
text and with not too many words showed
her students how to put on a white mask.
then, one stubborn boy with the habit of
sitting at a desk in the back of the room
yelled, “Teacher, I like it when you call
me, José!”
Wreckage
the wind found a little
rest in the pocket of the
old building an inspector
scheduled to condemn just
last week. it has gathered
dust, shouts, sorrows and
joys on the corner over the
years, speaking to the city
in Yiddish, Italian, English
and Spanish always lighting
up the sad dark. we talked
about it standing in front of
Joey’s bodega, seeing the
Puerto Rican kids visit the
store tugging at each other’s
shirts, sipping from the same
bottle of soda, laughing on
those streets stuffed with family
dreams, and every step taken
by them so completely full
of expectation. Victor once
lived in the condemned building
no one imagined defined by
a clock made from Orchard
Beach sand, the lightest side
of heaven and now about to
be tumbled. we chanted adios
on the way to the alley behind
the tenement, carrying spray
paint cans to write our names
on its wall again in fat twisted
letters.
The Radio
in a world with streaks of light
Picasso would have run down
our spines from bulging eyes,
radios announce in crowded
apartments last night’s injuries
and remains of those flattened
by devouring white rage. the smug
politicians who find clever ways
to say God, ignore the beggars at
the gates unkind Americans so
carefully raze with their smiling
English only lips and blindness for
the blessed fruit in brown wombs
birthing human beings. in a world that
hates wretched migrants with Spanish
names, in all the places of worship
that never call us fathers, mothers,
brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,
children, neighbors or friends, we
ponder in American English about
soldiers at the border, I.C.E. agents
down the street, cops taking aim, the
work for penny wages, the endless
nights weeping, the disemboweling
of Jesus and American shame!
God Bless America
the moon is rolled up for
sleep and our dreams are
troubled by the sound of
shouting on the White House
lawn, the rackets on the small
town streets, the corrupt ideas
of pious hearts and the faces
God dares not to see. tonight,
tears wash us clean while the
slow hold of darkness roves
around cursing at the light that
shines in our children’s sweet
chocolate faces. tomorrow, we
will awaken within the four walls
of the country’s hate, kept from
choice white spaces, trembling
at the image of a cropped-hair
Christ descending from the steeple
of respectable wealthy churches
and wondering how exactly does
God bless this America to which
our kids too sing? Does anyone hear
the varied carols in the nation’s
voice, anymore? Does anyone
hear
