Chaparro. Engelman. Coastal Live.
Chaparrón. Downpour. Sycamore.
Oak. The green grass so green
in the shade of the foliage. Any more of this
and the heart could not bear it.
The Sun shines his singular light
on the winding blinded road. I am
going west. The persistent ghosts
who lean further into this country
than we do ourselves.
The redemptive, oh how I wish redemptive, ghosts
of Chile, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Navajo pueblos, Colorado canyons. . .
(name everywhere and you will have it)
I am working my way home
I have a job in your warehouse of tears
I carry both the bitterness and the lightness of love
and others’ unending memories that I never
managed very successfully until now.
It’s weight is pushing me
how is it that the very work of holding it feeds me?
I came to visit and I am pulled, blind;
pulled into this matrix. I am working my way
home. I have a job.
I speak your language with hesitation.
I carry things about
in your warehouse of tears.
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