for Jordan Anderson
The piano teacher dies.
His fingers on the piano keys
Like water dripping from a ceiling
Into the silence of a cave.
The piano teacher dies.
His student now sheds
His practiced changes
Into the void of time feel.
The piano teacher dies.
His student discovers himself
As though crossing hands
At the moment of breaking free.
The piano teacher dies.
The student sits down
To play into the space
Of another accompaniment.
My transparency arriving at the speed of light,
Coming like a virus, like a bomb cyclone.
Already I’m writing like I’m not here.
Everything I am is gone except fear.
I stand at the window like a window.
I stand at the door like a door.
All my mirrors have vampirized me—
Piecemeal now, time zones away.
My fate grows transparent in another element.
On this page I can see the fading away
Fading away to where my invisibility
Becomes indivisible from myself.
The carrots—still alive in their boxes
The red onions—with silk sheets coming off
The cabbage— like wax balls in a museum
The potatoes—like earth eggs
The watermelons—like field boulders
The grapes—touched with green rain
The tomatoes—clinging to their birth
The green onions—playing dead in the sun
The bananas—and their sleeping samba
The customers—with weighing eyes
The gypsy selling kittens from an orange crate
The heat under the straw—the grit on the rind
The explosions of rot—the running juices
The voice of the greengrocer— like a sun song
In the window, in the mirrors,
In the moments between windows and mirrors,
My dad lost in reflection.
In the window, in the motion,
In the stopping and starting and hum,
My mom, never ageing on the bus.
In the window, in the stillness,
My grandfather’s casket and hearse
Stopped in traffic in eternity.
In the mirrors, in the window,
Razors and scissors fly about my face
Like piranha butterflies.
In the window, in the mirrors,
Moviegoers move forward
In an endless parade of history.
In the window, in the light,
Our backyard peach tree
Blossomed into a blinding sight.
In the window, in the mirrors,
In the moments between windows and mirrors,
What I’ve lost I’ve recollected.
Poetry has changed me.
It has mistuned, misused
And disabused me.
It has brought me to despair
And to giving up.
But I can also say
Poetry has mistuned me.
It has entranced me.
It has brought me to joy.
I have more to give.
for Fátima Cecilia Aldrighett Antón
Brighter than the sun, Fatima,
Exposing everyone.
For a child to suffer such a death
Must be any father’s outrage.
Where are the men?
Have we all become monsters?
And you, little miracle of the sun,
And you, little Fatima,
Brighter than the sun
Expose everyone.
for Fátima Cecilia Aldrighett Antón
Brighter than the sun, Fatima,
Exposing everyone.
For a child to suffer such a death
Must be any father’s outrage.
Where are the men?
Have we all become monsters?
And you, little miracle of the sun,
And you, little Fatima,
Brighter than the sun
Expose everyone.
Even so
The person clearing the snow
Of a snowy expanse in which position
Never seems to change
Begins also to vanish
Between one ice age and another
This won’t do; this won’t last.
This war of all against all.
Treat others badly, the bad returns.
Treat the earth badly, earth has last say.
Hate the human races, dream your many faces.
Convinced of your politics, think again.
Laws fall silent in a silent state.
Convinced of your beliefs, believe in freedom
To keep from being fanatic in belief.
This won’t do; this won’t last.
This war of all against all.
What human future, without a human past.
for Raúl Hernández Romero
and Homero Gómez González
Who needs a mariposa when we value
Profits over Beauty and Nature.
Why not kill all butterflies,
Grind them under our boots
Into gravity’s deepest grave.
We can’t let them pass through Purgatory.
Let’s declare a mariposa massacre,
Burn them in ovens– as they’re also God’s chosen.
Who needs a butterfly when we can pin them
Under glass and say
They were the anthologists of love,
Messengers between magic realms, flying flowers,
Living souls, sun leaves, wind riders,
They who sipped at the waters of Paradise.
I cross the Great Lakes to bring back
Your names, Raúl and Homero…,
They can’t kill the mariposa in us,
Soaring is tattooed on our souls.
We blossom into being, over and over,
To keep this earth from being Hell.
Salvatore Ala 