Are we not yet

another conglomeration

of degenerates led

by another reincarnation

of what our poets called

the drunken April mold.


And am I not just

another victim of an

never-ending lust

a parented orphan

caught in your cell, built

with bricks of guilt


And aren’t you still

another mermaid singing

the ode of the kill

a blackbee stinging

me in the face that swallows

and reshapes as follows


My eyes become mice

My brows become crows

My ear becomes deer

My voice becomes fear

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One thought on “Țeliot

  1. nu stiu de ce, pentru ca nu ar avea de ce – dar imi aduce aminte de:

    The Sign in My Father’s Hands
    For Frank Espada

    The beer company
    did not hire Blacks or Puerto Ricans,
    so my father joined the picket line
    at the Schaefer Beer Pavilion, New York World’s Fair,
    amid the crowds glaring with canine hostility.
    But the cops brandished nightsticks
    and handcuffs to protect the beer,
    and my father disappeared.

    In 1964, I had never tasted beer,
    and no one told me about the picket signs
    torn in two by the cops of brewery.
    I knew what dead was: dead was a cat
    overrun with parasites and dumped
    in the hallway incinerator.
    I knew my father was dead.
    I went mute and filmy-eyed, the slow boy
    who did not hear the question in school.
    I sat studying his framed photograph
    like a mirror, my darker face.

    Days later, he appeared in the doorway
    grinning with his gilded tooth.
    Not dead, though I would come to learn
    that sometimes Puerto Ricans die
    in jail, with bruises no one can explain
    swelling their eyes shut.
    I would learn too that “boycott”
    is not a boy’s haircut,
    that I could sketch a picket line
    on the blank side of a leaflet.

    That day my father returned
    from the netherworld
    easily as riding the elevator to apartment 14F,
    and the brewery cops could only watch
    in drunken disappointment.
    I searched my father’s hands
    for a sign of the miracle.
    (Martin Espada)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s