LITMIR.BIZ

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a dirty old tag in what was

      left of our place—like losing

      a good old friend!

      My Country

      my country where do you

      exist from sea to sea, how

      long will it be until liberty

      like the air breathed is for

      everyone, when will your

      national borders reflect the

      memory of Brown blood

      spilled, how long before your

      compass lets you march to

      our Spanish graves, where

      people who sacrificed life for

      you are permanently at rest?

      my country will you ever hear

      these sweet voices calling, say

      loud our names, and write history

      in your Spanish tongue? my country,

      how long do you think it possible

      to wander with closed eyes, deny

      the history in your face, and cover

      white hearts with hate and neatly

      piled high lies? sweet land of liberty

      confess freedom too rings for dark

      Americans like me!

      Look

      we will close our eyes after leaving

      the subway station, pass the people

      hanging on the corner, standing on a

      cinema line, looking at display windows

      on Southern Boulevard with longing

      on their faces, the ice cream vendor

      flipping insults to the cops who took

      away his spot, the thin old lady slowly

      crossing the street with a grocery cart

      still covered in dust, and the kids playing

      on the block with games made of honest

      junk. we will walk swinging a broom like

      an eye stick trying not to fall on the cracked

      sidewalk, listening to the breadline cries

      in front of the social services department,

      and mothers like loudspeakers moaning at

      the Ortiz Funeral Home. when we reach

      the distant corner, we will open our eyes

      to join a crowd looking at the sky yelling

      Spanish curses at an absent God.

      Amen

      the candles are burning in the

      basement chapel of the church,

      on altars in cheap apartments, in

      the hands of junkies cooking

      dope in the alley, and the dark

      places in need of light. the voices

      at prayer wonder whether the long

      hours discussing things with God

      are worth it, even when the most

      sweetly crafted words remain on

      lips for the long walks past all the

      amen corners. the small group in

      Emilia’s apartment declares vintage

      lines, muses deeply within about how

      a plate of rice and beans offers more

      than promises of godlike rest, visits

      from ministering Angels, and the

      peace of Christ that never does seem

      to come. what is going on in the Holy

      Book they read that is so unaware of

      their raucous screams? why are those

      hallowed words so dull on the block?

      they keep praying though convinced

      by the mysteries of faith, the Almighty

      hears!

      Raids

      we live on a street that tells

      time without clocks, the weeks

      going by find us fumbling for

      bolstering words to be carried

      in the pockets of worn paints. we

      wonder why the bells in the tower

      of the local church watching over

      us never stop the days that darken

      our tender hearts. often, we gather

      on the rooftops of old tenements

      to stare at the evening stars, resolve

      with gentle conversation the weight

      of fearful ventures to work booked

      for ICE raids. we take turns in poorly

      furnished apartments lighting candles

      to plead for heaven to quickly satiate

      our thirst, eradicate hunger, bring an

      end to poverty and prison bars. some

      days, we fiercely pray out loud for better

      days to come imagining the border crossing

      like fruit pulled from Eden’s best giving

      tree.

      Holy Mother

      his mother lit a candle every night

      before the image of the Holy Lady

      of God to keep him safe. the still figure

      on the altar listened to prayers of supplication

      without end not saying a single word

      and her exquisitely sad eyes knew there

      was very little for her to do. for him the

      day without blessing came speaking in

      fluent curses on Walton Avenue and a

      sickness ended his tender life. he was

      with us for two decades aching for other

      things, rejecting the idea that hope was

      an empty house, in love with candle holders

      in the local Catholic church, the comforting

      presence of sisters and priests, and the solemn

      ceremonies of Mass—it was swept away on a

      South Bronx night. the mother still lives in the

      same old tenement, more wrinkled and bent after

      so

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