prison, the black shawls hung
to dry worn by the old woman in
love with church, the pretty blouses
worn by Jessica that she made look
handmade, and the occasional nasty
blond hair wig. I saw these things
almost daily wondering whether they
could pray or know anything about the
blocks exhausted gods, could they tell
me why the police batons beat Willy
long enough to make the buildings
scream and the little children screech
with tiring fear. on the way to public
school 66 each morning I would
glance at the alley aware the rest of
the city doesn’t even know the people
who only own clotheslines live here,
then by the end of a week I would visit
the Saturday night confessional to tell
an Irish priest who just learned to speak
Spanish the damn stone where we live
is just never rolled away.
Migrant Woman
in the wrinkled black and white
photo she holds the Holy Book
with sweat streaming down her
earth colored brow. with dark
eyes in a slender migrant farmer
frame she hopes to break free. I
expect you know the fields that
consume her, the misty bleeding
landscape, the fretting hours spent
with others bent, the riches made
from her wounds, and the Spanish
tears she fetches from her most
intimate well. keep her divine
image in front of you, let the part
of you that is dead, stand beside
her with news that we are entirely
set free, rip out God’s pages from
the book, request with fire in your
words the Holy keys, use them to
make the callous world tremble and
kiss for her sake the wicked dark
good-bye.
Genesis
I remember playing on the
streets for hours and spinning
tops with friends who loved
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