Abandoned railway station, Texas desertDecember 4, 1900* Here they touch people all nightwith the mouths of rifle barrels. Thatis how the guards tap out their countof one hundred and twelve Boricuasgoing rigid inside this chilling box. I close my eyes, I countthree white shirts rowing night’s current.Youngbloods who ducked the guards’ bullets, they mustcount on…
Translated from the Spanish by Pablo Medina That pasta in cream sauce we made when we finished,that pasta we ate still trembling(we left the water on the stove,on a very low flame,and fifteen minutes before the endyou flew, barefoot, and threw it inand barefoot flew back, remember?) That pasta back when dusk fellwith its smell of…
At the Musée Gustave MoreauI looked at all the surfaces whileyou explained the stories. At the base of the spiral stairswe bared our eyes at Les Chimères,a painting pale and unfinished. What a heavy task he set himselfto finish with color and formall the empty limbs, I thought. Agitated by outlines, you read:He stopped working…
“See, one day, not now, we will be gone from this earth where we know the gladiolas.”—Aracelis Girmay But not today. today there is no funeral& no need for a burial shroud & a casket.in this room we are alive—each one of ustending the flowers that bloom on the smallearth of our hearts & watching…
Apparently I am this crying guy,eyes full of analogue worldin the gap betweenolive leaves, acknowledging the sea,acknowledging allis fucked as kidsand philosophers say and know best,but okay,for a silver-leafed span,storied but brief in the gap betweenolive branch and grief,I make this noise.It is enough. In the gap betweenbefore and gone already, my fatherand sister were…
How long would it take to growan Eastern White Oakeighty feet tall in your own backyard? And how longmight it take to burn oneall the way down? Could you shoot that on your phoneand let your battery run downuntil the ash at your feet is cool to touch? Even now, I canfeel grubs tunneling undertheir…
Look even birds sing in mourning.For the first time in years,a dove in the front yard builds nest,quietly patterns her return with bundles,weaves tiny broken thingsin work of a home.Whereas even the desert still offers itself, a pursuitunfolding unlike our bodies, just constellationsor chain link fences. The first time I hold between my palmsthe remnants of…
It’s what the phlebotomists always say, gushing when I slide up my sleeve, straighten my arm to boast bulging channels evergreen like spruce, leafy green like a spring mix, they bubble with delight palpating each protuberance, each tubular translucence swimming just beneath my skin, I suppose they are, perfectly plump for puncture, these outcurved creeks, transporters of blood—I’ve been thinking about blood, I’ve been thinking…
Does the rabbit know the fox has also turned to snow?You don’t raise pigs for milk.Wind pursues what it has blown away. Rain fallsgently on the city and its sirens. We’re more water than dust.Every umbrella is a big top.And childhood is a name for a visionary state.If I didn’t try to teach, I’d have…
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