| |
My Grandfather’s Vase
When he died mom took it
and it sat on the kitchen table
for years until I interrupted its tired torpor.
The shards of glass that threatened
to gash my baby carrot toes
no longer made the vase that grandpa left.
She rushed into the shatter,
then tinkle of angular, blue speckles
that coated the floor.
Glancing at Grandpa
in pieces then back at me.
She fought the tear
that tried to squeeze out of her
and gave me a crooked “its okay” smile instead.
It hit me, as if the vase had found my face
instead of the floor tiles,
and I, not knowing how to fight it yet,
sobbed moist, heavy spots
into the tablecloth for her,
not for a vase I never liked,
or an old man I never knew.
She held me tight,
wrapped up in her blanket arms,
Until the wet streaks on our faces dried.
Balloon Man
Like a balloon wrapped
around her little finger,
I sway erratically with her
indelicate dynamism.
Eager to please,
too eager perhaps.
My love is so clear that
birds fly into it and die.
The Death of Che
Colonel Selich came to see if it was true,
if he had been captured in the
steep ravine near La Higuera.
Selich found him lying bound hand and foot
on the dirt floor in a room
of a mud-walled schoolhouse.
Next to him lay the bodies of Antonio and Arturo.
“Colonel, look at them.
These boys had everything they could ever want,
and yet they came here to die like dogs.”
“Like dogs?,” the Colonel thought to himself,
“these men fought more bravely than any I’ve every known.”
“So, what are you, a liberator?” Selich asked aloud.
“I am not a liberator. Liberators do not exist.
The people liberate themselves.
You understand.” Selich did understand,
so when they shot him through the heart they made sure
to cut off his hands so his body would never be found,
so there would never be a shrine to Che Guevara,
so his furious passion would never again
inspire people to liberate themselves.
|
|
