On the lips of the wind I shall be called a tree of many birds.

                                      -Rosario Castellanos

As if to gather time like a clock we love to confuse,

we stretch our limbs too far and touch the world once more

without caring who it is we condemn:

 

The tired man bringing home a small check,

a young girl wishing she was dead,

two lovers confused as to why they cried.

 

On the eye of the shattered star,

we call ourselves home and wish

those colors we saw were true flight

above vegetation where we hid our desire

 

to be a second person, or a large box,

an apple, or a startled hawk surprised,

for the first time, its heavy prey fights back.

 

*

 

This is how we laugh at the knife kissing the heart,

the young boy undressing the teen-age girl for the first time,

the parrot in the cage answering the moans in the other room,,

cars in traffic turning to nightmares of streets abandoned

in the hour of love when we start laughing

and labor for the anxious lovers who promised

they would rise naked to welcome a third person

in trouble, knocking at their door.

 

*

 

Of the follower, we know little.

Of the time when we could read old letters

without crying, we forgive little.

 

Of the animals in our dreams,

we kill many and wake up bloodied,

startled like a flash against bone,

the roar of breath upon our exposed heads,

 

the nightmare becoming a herd of thin horses

galloping in crooked cirlces.

 

Of the concept of falling toward mountains,

we fall beyond clouds more troublesome

than any dumb daydream,

 

awakening with our blankets on fire,

hurtling ourselves toward a soft touching

of bare feet on cold floors.

 

*

 

In the soliloquy of the moon,

a man and woman exchange bits of fingernails

with tiny love manuscripts painted on before

they clipped them off with their teeth.

 

*

 

In the fist of distance

that invites us to dance,

 

a kidnapped lover waits for the lights

to come on so she can confess.

 

In the tree of history wecan’t name,

a crippled angel, thrown from the clouds,

 

hangs and dies,

lives, then dies.

 

In the first game invented after

the concept of winning,

 

a father whispers to his son to beware

the beauty of coming in last.

 

*

 

The last light always welds itself to the hand

-Roberto Juarroz

To say farewell with a handshake

that goes beyond touch,

so the goodbye becomes daylight

and the hello comes at night.

 

It burns in the sweat of the bone,

glows when the hand is alone

to mimic hands of friends, lovers,

parents who waved long ago.

 

It is the last light because the hand

does not hold on for long.

Fingers ignite into torches radiating

want and desire for long fingernails,

 

cracking knuckles, long life lines in the palms,

applause for how simple it is

to douse handlight by holding on

to someone else’s hand.