In pauper’s field, no flowers lie,
on our graves of chosen number.
How different is grief from public outcry?
There is no comforting answer.
Is God or the state our true gatekeeper?
Both took away our chance to say goodbye.
But which one silently buried us here,
in a pauper’s field, where no flowers lie?
They abandoned the need to notify,
to strangers in the newspaper.
Unknown to our families, that nearby,
were our graves of chosen number.
Death that is silenced is now a murder
of virtue, bureaucrats can’t justify.
Tell the news crew to ask the coroner,
“how different is grief from public outcry?”
We lived as people, but they say we die,
as “state’s property,” marked by the dollar.
When justice calls, and you apologize,
we will not give a comforting answer.
The cosmos measures the truth that matters.
Heaven’s busses may run late, but still ride,
a path for those whose hearts will remember.
History must hear our raucous reply
from pauper’s field, and so we try.
Talking endlessly and without reason,
I should have something to say,
something to tell you that would help you on your way,
I pause,
ready to speak,
yet nothing,
not even something little,
not even something great,
just silence,
silence so small,
so cogent,
it cause the earth to shake,
mountains to move,
and eventually,
you move with them.
Words can be powerful,
words can be true,
yet I used silence as a weapon against you.
when no one knows,
the wind will gust
again and again
until the final push
and the dead Elm
crashes in darkness –
and you won’t even know
it happened.
In darkness
Spring wind reforms
with pressure and gravity –
the touring planets
and conspicuous moon
cycles – the turmoil
of a planet in motion –
in a universe that never
sits still, never waits
on you.
Some March night
change has come, and
you are surprised? This
was foretold by the perpetrators
you blindly follow – and by
prophets you ignored,
or ridiculed and cursed
in your stupid self-
absorption.
You don’t know
how the wind blows,
so how can you make peace?
Preoccupied with pettiness,
you can’t possibly know
truth – love dissipates –
brotherhood falls headlong
on some sobering night
at the spurious mercy
of March wind.
while night scoops down to transform silt in the veins
spilling into day a slow drowning in songs from the waters of life
stretched fraying before day breaks
to dying embers of temporariness
wind blows like candle flames struggling,
calling with moans bodies of water found at home;
an odorous loneliness confers the darkness
etched in-between the broken lines in my face are alive.
the shelter-less river a spongy bait
of human ruins mislaid at the shore
offers a chastity of charity to bury loss…
dangling upon the wingless moon of nights—
carrying thrice my remains like an aura—
searching the language of color
coughed into the tears of thunderstorms,
clomping raw emotions into leverages of sand.
photocopied here a wet purpose of sacred water
reflects love
with a voice reposing gravity.
here, drink
drink of the sounds wafting into the hungry clouds
walking distress into god’s ears,
whispering what becomes of night
when the moon is put to shame in the nape of a thunderstorm.
a decorated death wind returns the echo of my wails;
standing before a mirror’s shadow praying,
tongue-shattered, I do not break:
a billowing tone rose a sun over my head as hands
touching the attire of my scarred morning breaths
brimming into freshness, night’s mouth.
We were just boys,
and we had spent
the best hours
of the day,
committing ourselves
to children’s parades
and folly crusades
and lost causes.
And we came home,
hungering and ravenous,
and ate amongst ourselves
candies and red meats
and angel cake, till,
full as pigs we
went off to sleep.
And yet,
in the dark of our rooms,
in the shadows of our bed corners,
certain bleak faces
had followed us home.
Hungry faces,
pale as the full moon,
And as widely grinning.
People disappeared.
Not just people but our neighbors. All five of them. Momma, Poppa and the three kids with
thick black hair who played with our kids, wispy blonde blue-eyed, all three.
When they moved in, I remember
You were a little uneasy.
We only speak English, you said.
Our kids learned their language as fast as their kids did ours
To show them what America was like, we showed them old reruns of Mr. Rogers
They didn’t want to watch it.
They did it.
Last night, our neighbors
Disappeared.
It was so quiet for a Sunday morning, that we went over
We always went to each other’s side door
There was a note
Please take our dog
And Penny,
That was Juanita’s chicken.
I knocked and the door opened
By itself.
Entering the kitchen was like our own
The smells were familiar
Last night we were here.
We ate bisteces
And from-scratch tortillas.
I had to apologize for my kids
Who chased Penny, the chicken
Through the hall
“All the kids were in on it,”
Paloma said with a smile.
“You’re more patient than me,”
I confessed.
Diego added, “Kids be kids. It’s ok.”
I looked at you.
You didn’t say a thing.
You do that. Let me stand there alone when I am vulnerable,
Undefended.
You pulled the note down and stared at it
Solemn but helpless as usual.
And suspicious. You reminded me that you said we should not get so cozy.
We don’t know these people, not really.
My youngest screamed from the back yard
“They shot Penny!”
Peppy, the dog had already come up from the basement
And was dancing around us
Pulling on your jeans leg
Frantic.
You pushed him away,
Gave me that disgusted look.
People like our neighbors don’t shoot animals,
I said.
ICE did it
Ice-cold did it all
It dawned on me that the rumor was true and now
It is happening
They must have come late in the night
I must find ICE COLD and tell them
About our neighbors.
They pay more taxes than we do,
We eat in each other’s houses,
Our kids are best friends
The only person undocumented is
Paloma and she is due to receive citizen ship next week
She’s been working at the local Holiday Inn for twenty years.
Where did they take our neighbors?
What do we do?
What did they do?
Did they fool us all this time?
I feel myself going numb
I am becoming you. And they, them.
