The history of my country is in every link of chains at the foot of Boukman’s copper statue overlooking a dusty town at the depth of despair with candlelights of anger burning in every tired palm. Low black clouds converted light into darkness, the man with a fat cigar stands in front of the black…
Far from Puebla and Michoacán men wake to pick peaches and beans. Light rolls out its bolt of cloth. Yard sales, craft shows, the six-pack loneliness of rural towns. On either side of I-95, going to Sonora, butterflies don’t care who drives more than fifty-five for a cheap pint of faith in the jackpots. Mars…
The black uncombed wig with stiff grotesque braids sits atop his broad and pockmarked forehead; and his grip on the dull tomahawk is almost woman- like. Yes, Father Scarmark’s winsome eyes and slouched spine do not befit a proven warrior. But the beaded American flag designs on the bayonet scabbard symbolize breaths stolen from German…
This time each year nothing stirs. The slow earth clings to its few known elements. Its moon lights only this tenth of the century. Autumn’s madness has left the trees. Winter’s sad mists, too. Between seasons, always waiting on the window’s other side, irregular shadows filter the already fine winds in which a stranger might…
1. There exists a future when green trees will be extinct. In our ingenuity artificial tree factories—A.T.F.’s— will flourish. Far ahead I see myself walking under one, and I grow uneasy at the thought of chunks of painted concrete swaying in the man-made breeze from bark-textured iron rods. Don’t worry, says the regional safety…
For so long the hillside shone white, the white of white branches laden, the sky more white, the river unmoved. And when the first stirrings started underneath, the hollowing subtle, unpredictable, rotten crust gave way— ice water up to the ankle! She turned from her work and shook her wet foot. The buds had broken….
1. For the one on top, polished, sartorial, but abstracted as Lincoln on his Memorial, fingers tapping the armrests, or flapping his newspaper, time at this connecting stop slows like winter on a mink-oiled Little Leaguer’s glove . . . When each shoe is stripped, finally, of its upper layers of the world, a silver-…
My friend wears boots to sleep so that I might learn her path. I know the way now. The room is as silent as a child in a closet. I hang this notion from an instrument of hindsight where it rocks at the appropriate moment like fortune's cube on a string. My neighbor with no…
In fourth grade Gabe Acosta and Jamie Hunter promised me they would bring a noose to school and hang me from a specific bough in the recess field. They told me I was a fairy and that fairies belonged in heaven. They each then tweaked my ear lobes, and I could only smile at them…
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