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dapt-poems

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a scar so small look closely there
here between the eyes
a bit to the right
there on the bridge of my nose
father says i was too young to remember
it happened while i was sleeping
leaking roof the pounding rain
drop after drop after drop
it has long been forgotten this practice of the mother
weaning a child she crushes the seeds of a green
chili rubs it to her nipple what the child feels
she too will share in this act of love
my own mother says it was not meant
to be cruel when cruelty she tells me
is a child’s lips torn from breast as proof
back home the women wear teeth marks
Why are you still seventeen
and drifting like a dog after dark,
dragging a shadow you’ve found?
about to tear itself, not I.
Memory takes the graveyard shift.
Yes, your childhood now a legend of fountains
—jorge gullén
How was the food? Tell them batata, mamón, guanábana, maní,
indigenous crops exchanging places with hunger,
giving up to the dark store window whose inventory is one hand
of bananas sold one banana at a time, giving up to little pyramids of limes
by the side of the road and the kids who tend them, dreaming
of a few coins tossed down in the dirt.
The prisoner can’t go any longer, but he does.
The beggar can’t go on begging, but watch—
Tomorrow he’ll be in the alley, holding out a bowl
To everyone, to even a young, possibly poorer, child.
The mother can’t go on believing,
But she will kneel for hours in the cathedral,
Holding silence in her arms.
The rain goes on, daily, sometimes, and we cry,
As often as not alone.
The fishmonger, the bell ringer, the cook, each
Can be corrupted in a less than dire way.
Nothing can replace the sea breezes you were born to.
Nothing can stay the shy ache in the palm
you hold out to the fortune-teller.
The concrete lions on her steps go on
Making bloodless journeys, they go on
Hunting in air longer than any of you will live to watch,
Hunting still after your futures become all irises
and blamelessness.
After Octavio Paz
guided my ship like the barefoot light on the sleeping land & sea.
The fearless blackbirds see me again
at the footpath beside the tall grasses
sprouting like unruly morning hair.
They caw and caw like vulgar boys
on street corners making love to girls
with their “hey mama
this” and their “hey mama that.”
But this gang of birds is much too slick.
They are my homeys of the air
with their mousse-backed hair and Crayola
black coats like small fry hoods who smoke
and joke about each other’s mothers,
virginal sisters, and the sweet arc of revenge.
These birds spurn my uneaten celery sticks,
feckless gestures, ineffective hosannas.
They tag one another, shrill and terrible,
caroling each to each my weekly wages.
But they let me pass, then flit away.
They won’t mess with me this time—
they know where I live.
But these, thy lovers are not dead.…They will rise up and hear your voice. . .. and run to kiss your mouth.
In the garden of Père Lachaise,
city of the dead, we passed angels
covering their faces in shame,
& nineteenth-century trees, with tops bowed
as if their only purpose was to grieve,
& crossed the Transversales to Wilde’s grave.
When lovers leave, they leave their kisses
glistening on the gray slab,
on impressions of lips themselves,
a tissue of strangers’ cells
the conservators cannot leave alone,
& scrub the graffiti, as the plaque decrees
by law, no one can deface this tomb,
& still the images of lips remain,
dark gray stains of animal fat
imprisoned in limestone.