World Weather Forecast
children suckle bombs,
grin mouthful of bullets,
step on barb wire dreams,
a landmine jigsaws them
to pieces. Across the river,
new tenements finger
toward heaven. This side
bombs the other, and they
riddle our days with missiles.
On the water, we see
images of clouds bursting,
burning into that line many
have learned to cross, where
our dead whisper their songs
in smoke-blind wind.
The Exile Speaks
of a red tongue, black words
a necessary longing for shadow,
a corpuscle, a dangled leaf
from a spider web’s thread,
useless hands, fingers claw
any dirt, seeds bloom into fists
an anger never allowed to ebb,
dreams of rotted, worm infested
pulp, all that tastes bitter, agrio
like bile, a regurgitation of lost
steps. Why not forget? Teeth
chatter in cold night air, dentures
in a glass. Away from the mouth,
teeth sing to all those about to drown.
We keep an eye open, even in sleep,
watching the couple of hairs twitch
on the man sitting next to me on this
West-bound flight. His skin deep
olive, his eyes Arabic coffee ground.
What language is spoken between us?
Our bodies? He suspects that I too
am not from here, these parts, where
the earth leaps and bounds over mesas,
rivets up in bluffs, canyons, rivers
sparkle down below. He smells me,
and I in turn smell a faint scent of tumeric,
or bijol, the colorant my mother used
in her paellas, or arroz con pollo dishes.
He knows where I’m going, keeps an
eye on my shoes, my coat, my laptop
upon which I am writing: I know you,
I know where you come from. I see
that place of rivers in your eyes where
your dead have floated off into eternity
burning, sinking into forgetful waters.