Leaving Sunday at 9
I leave my flesh
Buried six feet beneath
The good earth,
I leave a torrent
Of souls waving goodbye,
I leave the promised land
With drenched eyes—
a moment of silence
for our departure
a tribute to what remains,
all is still.
I’ve left my self behind.
Journey from the Plague
Hellish sirens bend with distance
through a day’s grey mists
the sounds of birds emerge
claiming my mind’s eye
My childhood appears
my mother shields us from
freezing unbridled winds
using a butter knife
stuffing toilet paper into
our rattling cracked window frames
i follow her
mimic her at 7 or 8
i follow my mother from window frame
to porous window frame
Then
sirens
dissolve my memory again
Returned to my cloistered quarantine
do I hurl my self
into a shuttered city
emptied hollowed out
save for ambulances transporting the dead
birds and pigeons insects and mice
the trees and the flowers of spring?
Saliendo el domingo a las 9
(para Salomón y María Mercado)
Dejo mi ser
Enterrado seis pies debajo
La buena tierra
Dejo un torrente
De almas hondeándome adioses
Dejo la tierra
Con ojos empapados
un momento de silencio
por nuestra partida
un tributo a lo que se queda,
todo está estático
Me he dejado a mí detrás
Virus Dreams
On any other day
saturated dreams of light
in surreal fabulous colors
would be cause to celebrate…
But my dreams are now grey nightmares
I clean filth-ridden warehouses
Move boxes seeped in grey ash
