Goya
Three corpses bound to a tree stump,castrated, one without arms, its head impaledon a branch. A dark impression, richly inked,with a delicate burnishing of figures. Pondering it,I feel like a worm worming. If I want the truth,I must seek it out. The line between the innerand outer erodes, and I become a hunter puttingmy face down somewhere on a path betweentwo ways of being—one kindly and soft;the other an executioner. Later, out in the plaza,I light a cigarette and have a long pull,with small exhales, taking the measureof my own hand, its lustrous hairyknuckles dinged from grinding meat.
To a Root in Air
Swatting flies from their faces, the boysplay in garbage heaps of burned corn cobsand crushed plastic bottles. Their tear-rimmedeyes do not seem to bother them. Men chop woodfor fires…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2020