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In Black / De Luto
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The day we started bombing (we because no matter
How I refused, they used my name anyway)
I folded up joy, like a Bedouin's tent, bright,
Fringed and billowing and put on black.
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Arms Full / Con Brazos Llenos
|
To talk of gratitude is to be
the fool in a cynic’s world.
Gratitude is pride’s nightmare,
the admission of humility before something
given without expectation or attachment.
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A Poem for You
|
Between these lines is a poem.
It is a story of tragedy,
Of hilarity, the telling of your first kiss,
Your first betrayal, the first time
You felt different. And why.
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Raising Boys
|
First of all, I know nothing about
Raising boys. I am a mother
Of girls, lithe and soft, cruel
To others like them, but never to boys.
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How She Works / Como Trabaja Ella
|
She is Persephone with no
Demeter to rescue her. Above
is always winter. Inside the cave
she calls her office,
she is a schizophrenic talking
to the voices that enter her head.
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Men Gardening
|
Flowers spring forth from frustration of
Days in offices, from days behind the wheels of cars.
Vegetables growing, plumping from the pain of
Days arguing in court rooms and nights
Pouring over accounts.
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Mundane / Mundano
|
We want to live life on a nobler plane,
More eloquent arguments, more elegant
Intentions. We imagine ourselves living
scripts, perfectly written, great exits.
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Finding her Mother Murdered
|
The daughter returns from school
Burning with adolescent concerns,
Like so many suns, all self.
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What the President Dreams
|
The president dreams his Father
is the sky. His father contains everything:
daylight, minutes, rose petals, the footprints
of children in Gaza’s dust, diamonds
buried in mundane stone, the eyes of
the jaguar and the downy hair of a newborn.
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Untitled
|
Traveling from Flooded California to Drought-Stricken Arizona - 13 April 2006 [listen to Rebecca Read]
|
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Pavlov’s People
|
He would love us—wired
or wireless, jumping
at every beep and blip.
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The Wall
|
Expecting an offense, you’ll find an
invitation—the wall, thin and black
as the jaguar it wouldn’t keep out.
|
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Writing Virginia’s Way
|
Staring out the window—wasn’t it Virginia
Woolf who said that most writing was
just that?
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Let Go of Fear
by Larry Robinson
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Translated by Rebecca del Rio
|
