New Year's Day

Some people say don't bring the old
to the new. Now is the time
to throw away bad habits.
Maybe we humans need more than
sheer will to do what is good for us.
A baby was also born on December 31.
Lines float to us in neat rows shining
on screens. We watch the world,
see things we wish to never see,
say "Happy New Year"
because that is what we hope for
deep in our hearts, but, deep in our hearts
we know that someone is dying
and the world cannot always be
the rosy place we'd like.
We hope that it will be Happy for us.
We have made it this far, hurrah!
We sign on for the next twelve months
like soldiers signing up for another tour.
And after all this, my body speaks
unbidden, come Lord Jesus.

Letters from Cuba

The letters from Cuba
are like secret friends I have yet
to meet. I will find each one out--
their handwriting, how an "n"
looks like an "es" or how one
write in all caps and connects
every phrase with a comma.
These are friends in a town
with few known faces.
They take me to the only other
letter I have translated, for Marta,
asking for money to get her papers.
Today, there is no way to translate
Así es la vida with its finality.
I put their voices in the envelope
and take the grey road home
my vision shifting from Spanish
to English, from poetry to normal.

Today's Events

Grief is like a punch in the stomach.

It glazes us so that driving a car

or crossing a parking lot to buy

tomatoes for dinner is dangerous.

I forgot to grab the Redbox.

Memories replay in the search

for a previously insignificant detail,

some sure sign indicating, warning, that

today’s events would unfold as they did.

Finding none, the brain returns

to the scene of the crime: third-floor

parking deck, twelve noon, Friday.

In this case, alone among all other

breaking news stories, the brain

can fill in the exact face, the exact

stature and build of the man

who holds up the gun and fires. 

He used to wear white socks

with his Adidas flip flops. He spoke

softly and gently, loved his sisters.

Then, the questions: did he fool us all?

Killers don’t drive Prisuses. Why did

he wear slacks and a shirt and tie?

He hardly fits the bill for a killer.

Are they sure it was him? Then,

to the John Grisham novel where

one side effect of a bad drug

was the intense desire to kill.

Surely, this is the only way…

There’s nothing to do now

except to cook the shock and disbelief

into the fajitas, then brace for the moment

of realization in the middle of the night

or first thing in the morning: 

it really wasn’t a bad dream.

An exercise with H words

Honey gleams in the corner

hum of your mouth-- 

honest hole I stare into 

hour on hour. 

 

I would make my home, 

close to holy words,

near hands that play. 

Together our harmony

builds a humble church,

headed by a two fingered steeple. 

How long we waited, 

every peal of hollow bell

sharper than a hammer's edge. 

From this house 

all homilies proclaim 

hallowed be He, 

the one who hears. 

In the place of healing, He comes, 

inhabits the fellowship of our steeple. 

Sargent's "Street in Venice" Ekphrasis Exercise

This is a set that I did for an Ekphrasis class at Wheaton fall semester 08 with Prof. David Wright. I came across them a week or so ago, and I kind of like them. Ekphrasis means that music or art is involved in the generative process. It's a very fun way to write-- it helps your imagination. I really like this painting because it seems so full of possibility. Sargent is great at painting women, and there's a lot of movement in his work-- to me, his paintings seem full of stories. In Ekphrasis, you decide what the stories are. It's art about art, playing together. 

It all Depends on the Sky
—after John Sargent’s “Street in Venice”

Without the sky
we cannot tell
if it is afternoon
dusk or morning,
if the men loitering
in the alleyway
prepare the morning meal
or make bets at cards.

We do not know
whether or not
to show concern
for the young woman
in the rustling white skirt
lost on the Calle Larga
dei Proverbi. It all depends
on the sky—will the two
huddled in the doorway
follow her or forget her
as soon as she turns the corner.


Angels in the Alley
—after John Sargent’s “Street in Venice”

Once I heard the story of a woman
and two angels in an alleyway,
and the space around this Venetian girl’s
cloaked frame is just wide enough
for her to be flanked on either side.
I think that is why she clasps her hands
together in front and sets her face straight—
she knows. The man in the doorway can see them.
His wormlike eyebrows are lifted
so they brush the bottom of his hat,
and his mouth is the shape of an apricot.


A Wrong Turn
—after John Sargent’s “Street in Venice”

It’s so easy to get lost
in this city of bridges.
A cloak is not enough
to create safety in the pulse
of the Venetian girl who is
as light on the stone street.

Where is her father,
her uncle, or cousin
that she wanders
in the skyless scene.

The streets are wet in patches
and someone is always hungry here,
a wrong turn.


Sargent’s “Street in Venice”
—after Anne Sexton’s “Her Kind”

I, too, have pulled a dark cloak
around my shoulders,
and on other nights roamed
barefoot behind the chapel,
hair rain-smeared to my face.

I, too, am familiar with the eyes of men
trailing the current of my steps
and have kept my gaze low.