it was a mistake
to attend
opera in the jungle
blueblack viola
fruits shaved
of excess
no blueblack skin
pink, inert
whole art there where the faintest
YOU installs,
imagine R, im ordained
to circuit your remains
with my trowel dead opera
chairs there
peeling cushions i place a
little blueblack booklet
down for you
by the strings
where a pond has sprung
from the pit
orchestra that is
installing YOU by way
of mercuric vines
hard and slightly bent
at a comfortable pace
in time-
harder
bent against how hard
you feel
press inside
and pulse
they litter the earth
each body bespoke by their branding
we give it word
unique
individual
special
these qualify and quantify giving some satisfaction
figured it out did you?
marginalize these marks into categories and compartments
looking for a lightness of being
as if you can know
really
why don’t you try to look at them again
they are after all registrations
telling the reader of a belonging
marking us each with the place and time blade and stem
to which we all cast the same glance.
Every memory of him I possess
is dressed in a button-down,
leather shoes, and old-man slacks
worn belted high, prone
to ride up whenever he bends
at the waist to sit in his armchair.
Sometimes, above his socks, I catch
a glimpse of grandpa’s legs,
shiny as his balding head,
stick-thin shins scarred red,
mom says, from years of steely scrapes
tattooed by creamery cans.
He was a farmer back then,
but I’m too young to imagine what I see
is not what’s always been. How strange
the thought of him, now soft with age spots,
once hefting hunks of milk-filled metal,
clad not in slacks, but in boots and denim.
I had a good day today
It was nice, peaceful even
But ignorance can only last so long
I realize what day it is
I feel my pulse quicken
I feel my throat tighten
I feel the edges of my vision start to get blurry
I drive with the windows down, playing music, dissociating
I’m fucking frustrated
It’s like I finally reach safety, gasping for air and another reminder of you pulls me back under
Like you were a bomb, exploded and left me with fragments of shrapnel imbedded beneath my skin
Your memory chiseled into my being
Your words resurfacing in my mind
All because of what you did to me
All because I will never be the same
All because of today
-happy birthday, asshole
So often, we tend to hide our fears;
Yet, it is in our vulnerability
That we find connection.
We lay bare our grief to
Give permission to another to cry.
We allow our scars to be seen
In order to recognize another’s.
We create community
When we share our suffering which
Builds trust to touch another’s pain.
Those who are wounded
Do not search for heroes,
But for others who know what
It is to be human.
End of May
Glistening repose
Cool serpentine blanket of rose
Gamble of raccoons in marble and chinoiserie
Pale pink and lavender daffodil cupola
June begins
a crush of brush
A long antsy chain
Head and lungs cave in
Sheets get twice their polish in
Mid June
Time is times four
The list grows hard
Though I am careful to water
it’s cottony
All day
The cold is my favorite cousin, sleeping over, taking turns playing Nintendo
What will this final week be
A laundry of lists
A mini version of the moon
Reeking smoke on the lips
A capsule of foam
A bestseller tome
A coracle dome
A miracle of
black moth
Or winged horse
with vinegar to sip
Girl, Locked Away – from El alba del alhelí or Wallflower’s Dawn (1925-1926)
1.
Your father,
they say, locks you away.
Your mother grips the key.
Neither wants
that I see you,
that I speak with you
that I say to you I am dying
to get married.
2.
Because you’ve olive trees
and bulls fighting brave afield—
the cattlemen’s blistering rumor
that I do not come for you
but for the taste of honey.
3.
The whole town already knows it.
The artisans are singing it,
the barber conspires
to embellish the story,
and oh! giggling the saddle maker,
and the horse master makes
cool comment over cream sherries
in the corners with the muleteer.
The tale is told,
by the carpenter to the gravedigger.
The dead already know the story!
And you without knowing how.
4.
Someone sweeps
and sings
and sweeps
(clogs at daybreak).
Someone
shoots at the outer doors.
But what a fear
my dear Mother!
(Oh! those who ride the wind,
on a sailboat today
go charging the seas!)
Someone sweeps
and sings
and sweeps.
There was a horse, backing off
of the print of the echo
of his foot in the street.
But what fear Mami
were someone to answer the door!
If Father appeared in his long
tunic, dripping!—
What a horror Mother!
Someone sweeps
and sings
and sweeps.
Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi
