Post by mfwilkie on Mar 15, 2009 0:23:00 GMT -5
I
hard grey, the sea two days ago—
hard almost to the horizon, to a
ribbon of navy blue, an edge of
confinement running north and
south, the color of blue a gringa
expects in her dreams of the sea.
Yet, it was as if the strength
in this contrast of blue was
a barrier holding that hardness
close to shore; a new face of
hardness working its way through
the lives of a people forced to chase
their dreams over ugly fences built
by neighbors who stonewall the facts
of history with their comfortable revisionist
views; neighbors who forgotten how much
we in America stole from them to be,
to become.
II
a dog barks in an empty street
and the air above the street
stretches its silence searching
for the music of heritage.
III
three cars go out to work,
come home to eat.
it's the height of rush hour
below open windows—the effort
and luck to still have a job that feeds
the children whose everyday games
of soccer feed ears of poets living
on their street.
IV
beyond the smiles that seep from the ease
of compelling people, hawkers call out, their
embarrasment pocketed deep inside their pride.
And while they mean, please come,
tourista, help us feed this loco poverty,
there is no blue in the room as you lift
your fork.
