first published in Poetry City, U.S.A.
reprinted in The News, Mexico
Under the metal wing
of another plane leaving home
a field of clouds, moisture
no one can hold
under the clouds
a white page of snow
under the snow
roofs like book covers
splayed open
under the roofs
our cranial bones
under bone
our songs remembering
life after leaving:
in the city
we walked in rags
wrapped around our feet
hunger held us;
we did well
if we had potatoes
new laws took
our fathers’ work
then took our fathers
they aimed at our elders’ hearts
for “friendship
with God’s enemies”
led us to clothed bones
in barrels; yes, we said
these are our sons, disappeared.
Certain of always losing
we stand on the Strong Cliff
ready to strike.
Our tongues tremble
with this exile.
Yet, under our songs of the separated
our roots sing through soil
to other root clusters
feeding trunks, branches
multi-mouthed, green-voiced
leaves of every shape and language
under the leaves, the word
light/
luz/
luce/
lumière/
licht/
свет/
نور/
אור
under the word