Not Even a Flower

i would like to write something
so beautiful
it tears your heart out

but what is that thing?

i would like to write something
to make you fall in love with me
but i haven’t yet learned
the right language

i would like to
climb a tree and
cry until morning
between the stars

to explode open
into a red and purple bloom
all the colibris would kiss me

but i am not even a flower

this pen in my hand is
so small and thin

A Poem to Name a Book After

That’s what I think of the poem “Certain as Afternoon,” the title poem of my new book.

The poem is about the beginning of the end–about death, but not about the moment of dying. The poem is about the moment death is born and no one knows it. Like quiet rain in the night, and you wake up and look out the window and say, “Hey look! It rained in the night. I wonder when? I didn’t hear anything.”

In the poem, there is a “we.” The “we” is me and Pio, of coruse, but it is also any other “we” in the world. In the night while we are sleeping in our room, something else enters the room quietly like rain in the night. No one knows the moment it comes. But when we awaken in the morning it is there in the room with us, certain as afternoon.

Because the one thing you can be sure of in the morning, on any morning, is that the next thing to arrive is afternoon.  And when the end has begun, it’s arrival follows as naturally as afternoon follows morning.

 

Certain as Afternoon

death came quietly
like rain in the night
no one knew the
moment it began

there was no thunder
no lightening
when the sick cells
began to divide then
send out seeds

when we woke in the
morning
it stood in the
room with us
certain as afternoon

 

Certa Come il Pomeriggio 

la morte cominciò a formarsi
silenziosamente
come pioggia nella notte
nessuno sapeva il momento
del suo inizio

non c‘erano tuoni
nè lampi
quando le cellule malate
cominciarono a separarsi
ed a disseminarsi 

quando ci siamo svegliati
al mattino
era lì in piedi
nella stanza con noi
certa come il pomeriggio

Los Robles Jalan Rayos

maybe gerardo was right.
maybe there is something sinister
after all about the robles,
those twisted branches
bewitched with luscious
humid blooms in the
driest sun of february’s
scalding curse

he always said
los robles jalan rayos and
i rolled my eyes
but now i wonder.
the robles were blooming their
wicked flowers
when i knew
something was wrong

you tried not to be sick
but i saw the night sweats.
i remembered jenna who had them
before she died
and your skin’s undertone
went from peach to blue.
i saw it,
while on the robles
impossible flowers surged from gnarled twigs
and fell
from the sapphire colored sky

 

 

 

 

 

All You Have

time is nothing
time is
all you have
mark its passage
keep it
let it go

can wind be a
measure of it, or
is time a measure of
how much wind
has slid through
your branches?

where are your leaves?
they have fallen and
wind has
taken them away

don’t look
wait with
eyes closed
hear how much time
fills the universe

catch it
hold it tight
all you have is
nothing

Tree Poem Week–#6: El Tamarindo

Un Arbol Que Puede Cambiarte La Vida

el tamarindo es un arbol que
puede cambiarte la vida
si nace en la esquina de
la plaza de un pueblo
olvidado por el reloj,
si le construyen un banco de cemento
abajo, y si
llegas alli para sentarte

el tamarindo es un arobol que
puede cambiarte la vida
si lo dejes.
si buscas la sombra de sus
ramas desordenadas cuando la luna
revela los secretos
de la plaza en
blanco y negro.
puedes enamorarte allí mismo
sin darte cuenta,
con preguntas susurradas
detrás de su tronco

el tamarindo es un arbol que
puede cambiarte la vida.
el amor te puede
dislucionar.
puede levantarse de repente
como un pajaro espantado y
ir a hacer su nido
bajo el techo de otra

pero el tamarindo
no,
ni la luna
tampoco

Tree Poem Week–#2: Los Robles

Los Robles

Gerardo me dijo que los robles
son malos
que yo estaba loca
de no sembrar eso
cerca de la casa

quien sabe porque se secó

ya son veinte años y a mi
lo único que un roble me ha tirado del cielo
es una lluvia de flores
humedas como claveles
con el coraje de nacer bajo un
sol abrasador
en el mes del viento feroz que las
arranca de las ramas donde brotan
apenas se muestran
las caras

Tree Poem Week– #1: El Mango

If you’re not familiar with the trees of the tropical dry forest, let me introduce you to some of my friends.

Company of Mangos

I cannot live one more day without
the company of mango trees.
How am I supposed to breathe
without their green certainty
exhaled into the world?
There is no other way
to survive.
Who else will hear my prayers and
whisper them to heaven?
Their roots pushing down
show me where to
put my feet.
Their parakeets remind me when to
stop sleeping.