LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

will wake us today

      to the ongoing darkening

      of light across the nation,

      to the ignorance moving

      up and down the streets

      battering strangers brown

      like Christ the pale faces

      say makes them diseased?

      what will make us sick of

      the suffering, the poisoning

      hate, the neighbors quietly

      becoming willing tools, the

      broken bodies beneath the

      weight of white power? how

      long until we hear the crying

      sounds of knotted throats, the

      plain truth annihilated on city

      streets, the blistering crosses

      aflame and deaf to shouted pleas?

      when will the country plot a

      course to mercy, hope, justice

      and peace?

      Factory Girl

      once again you are home

      from the factory slipping out

      of work clothes covered with

      scraps of cloth you spent the day

      cutting. you undo the fake pearl

      necklace laying it on the altar next

      to the Cross then take off shoes to let

      swollen feet begin their bare tour of

      the apartment without pain. you walk

      to the bedroom window sliding it open

      to have a look at the potted flowers on

      the fire escape that eagerly call out your

      name like prayer trying to reach the ears

      of the everlasting. in the kitchen by the sink

      full of last night’s dishes you recall being a

      child of Spanish earth and digging soil with your

      hands to help corn and beans squeeze through

      land to grow. now, your rough hands with broken

      nails are clamped to a factory machine you work

      while sitting on a pitiable stool to make the petty

      wages keeping you in a cramped fifth-floor room

      with scanty daily bread. when the clock strikes

      nine you go sit in your living room with an old

      Bible to pray with used hope for an end to this

      unforgiving spell.

      The Vigil

      we came to the vigil to

      light candles for tragic

      times, hold light up to

      the dark, bear witness to

      justice despite the protests

      of those born another way.

      we came with voices to

      condemn the ghastly white

      cotton sheets their bodies drape,

      and the hating tongues they

      flap on our streets. we came

      with signs in hand, voices to

      give evil a name, and in living

      colors that have never given

      God a reason to complain.

      Cobbled Street

      we searched for days on the

      cobbled streets of the Bronx

      still bearing witness to stories

      believed on them by the old

      who longed for distant lands, the

      stones still pounded by footsteps

      keeping time with the hard labor of

      the poor, and their children who never

      grow tired of skipping on them without

      touching a single crack. some nights

      on a probing stroll guided by weak

      light coming from tenement windows,

      we offered scathing prayers to heaven

      trusting it would motivate a serious

      conversation with the Maker who doled

      out more than a few mistakes without

      giving a simple explanation. one night, we

      decided to walk dragging our feet over the

      stone, sing a few songs to stray dogs scavenging

      rubbish cans, look into the dark until our eyes

      adjusted to clearly see, and then listen closely for

      strange words that came prancing up the street

      in a well-traveled body sharing wisdom about the

      beginning, end and whole damn big thing.

      Night

      last night, I woke to the sound

      of the wind gusting outside the

      apartment window, listened to

      it searching for a message to

      borrow from the other side of

      the border, where laughter is

      still more real than the tears

      pouring to the city sidewalks,

      I prayed in the shivering arms of

      night, a quick word would float

      into the room that you somehow

      would see in the walk north a light

      in front of the building and then

      make your way to it. in the mournful

      village you left behind, on the soft lips

      that kissed you farewell, across a shrinking

      distance, I could almost hear the wildly

      shouted praise of the tiny church offering

      you the company of a border crossing God

      to carry on the weary trip. I will stay awake

      waiting for the telephone to ring and

      in the bare night hear your sweet brown

      lips declare, I am here!

      The Fire

      there are flashes to make

      you wonder who reads the

      history books packed with

      screams hurled from brown

      skinned and despised people

      like me. we have lived for

Скачать книгу