return of the color green

rhythms will pass through the grasses, the wheel barrow
will offer a quixotic bale of hay, snapped open barbed wire,
a cry will ruffle its keys and your knees will buckle,
cinnamon and papaya seeds, torn dresses from the mountains,
a maraca, seven kilos of goddess corn, a machete
in grandfather’s hands, the rough braids across the breast,
the old ones singing to the fire, beating the drum
at the summit of the Indian mountain, below, the buses
crank the smoke, the roofs rumble, a marketplace fills
with tears, one maraca, then the sun,  a child marches
to school with a gunny sack, malaria, televisions, the sister
wears a palm frond, Cuba, Africa, Brazil, somehow they
sound the same, night sends you a shiver, guava fruit
by the kitchen air, it is all there, almost ready for your arrival,
your skin sharp, hair regal and defiant, on the bus, racing
the crooked earth huts, the jammed human trucks,
tobacco, fish and hot sodas, avocados and aspirin
to the next stop, you there, with your legs catching light,
your shoulders naked and your face clean, mosquito bites
and laughter, you breathe with every star and you take in
the syllables of the last trees, those trees, they know who
you are, waiting




19 powkroskaya street

my father lights the kerosene lamp, his beard jagged, hands
wet from the river, where he kneels to pray in the mornings,
he sits and pulls out his razor, rummages through a gunny sack,
papers, photos of his children in another country, he cries a little
when he mentions his mother, Benita, and his father Salome
who ran a stable in Mulato, Chihuahua, his eyes cast down
then he looks up and points to the mural on the wall, the red
angels descending to earth, naked mothers with bellies giving birth,
lovers in wrinkled green trousers, and a horse with the figures
of children laughing on its back, a goat floats across the night
moon, a flank of tawdry farmers unfurl into a sparkling forest
where elegant birds sit on snowy branches, here is
a miniature virgin where the yellow flames light up the village
one dancer carries fishing poles and easels with diamonds
and other jewels as colors, my father is silent
when he sees these things, how they cut across my face




guitar made of wood

when you touch the guitar, your left hand moves
by itself, the fingers smooth the frets, ivory at the center
gold in steps, ridges and mountains that remain unseen,
it is in this way that your right hand hovers over the leaf,
with a wound round as this planet, deeper than
the song you are singing, you go there and your heart
falls over the cliff, your shoulder against the woods,
and all you can say is in the dark streams that move
on their own, under the trees, hidden from the moon,
you drown with your mouth almost whispering and your
arms by your side, back and forth, your legs pluck
the road before you see it, the ground swells up,
blue night washes the boat — there you draw a light
circle here, circle there, with your soft wide palms

fisher of poets

xxxxx for m. medrano

his kindness is legendary, his outpourings, who would
sacrifice so many years in the brine, casting nets with jagged maps
shredded ropes, swollen oars, bloated hooks, barefoot, abandoned
his hair white leaves down the rivers, currents under driftwood green,
the stars, yes, the stars, he says, they are the torn eyes of god,
so I must search for poets, except I cannot see what god sees,
so, the fisher finds his purpose in this manner, made of magic
and torture, darkness and laughter, he grasps a willow,
a thistle, a silk-thin eucalyptus reed, this, he says, is her face,
a fragment of cloud catches on his head, this, he says
is her heart, that is all he needs — so he swims back
to release his blue lines with his tiny rough wings
half-washed in crystal light and eyes scorched black-deep