Voices on the Corner. Harold J. Recinos
the crowds on the
well-kept sidewalks.
we drew nearer to the
truth that sabado
afternoon simply
to drink it still.
The Water
when the city was
new to me faces
smiled on all the
corners, the fire
hydrants in summer
opened, kids undid
cans at each end
for water games,
skinny old men ran
through puddles, bag
carrying abuelas laughed
in rainbow vapors, wet
kids ran to bodegas
with nickels in hand
for five cookies, records
played loud music
on Saturday, domino
games were unending,
girls jumped roped,
the church bells kept
time, nights were not
wounded by fear, we
believed, loved, lived,
with such risa, and there
were no strangers.
Speak
I sit and hear
about the man
from Guatemala
shot last week
by cops who never
sob about wrong
doing. I see
bony children in
unlit apartments
neglected, abused,
desperately crying
in beaten mothers’
arms. I hear people
talk about martyrs, agony
without end, the death
of the world, the vain
cries everywhere, the
churches unable to see
and hear beyond their
sullen Sabbath. I dwell
on the silence of God.
The Place
we have come
into the church
after years of death
lived in a world
no longer listening
to God. the incense
cleanses our wounds
as flickering candles
on a crystal moon night
carry us to you. we sit
before two sore eyes
on a saint never suspicious
of strangers, full of acceptance,
sleeplessly waiting, and find
rest. we light candles for those
turned dusty ash to raise
them once again from the
terrible silence.
The Drowning
you walked across
the bridge far, far
away to the screaming
dock that assembled
the people with candles
flickering into the
night beside the
lady whose five year
old drowned. you saw
them speak in tongues
and cast cries to an
invisible God who never
misses funerals. you
watched them pull the
little girl from the
river that kept her
for three days cursing
all the horror. you
fell beside the child’s
mother who snapped in
the company of strangers
her tears carried by
a desolate wind.
The Street
have you walked the
avenue where sidewalks
turn red, and tenement
windows never open.
one evening I fell
beside a motherless
friend shot in the
head for selling baby
powder to dope fiends
who had dried blood
mixed with rage on
veins craving a fix.
death came to life
on this street the
pious only swallow
with prayer, never
minding the drowning
sorrow of those only
strong enough to sob
in God’s city for the pale
and sudden departures.
will you walk a bit
further into the corner
night, where the people
gather in store front
faith to speak prayers
before the dropping
darkness, where no one
sees us hunger, or thirst
or reach for life beyond
the ascending coffins
and tolling bells.
Piety Lost
that church piety you
claim to build life
closer to God on
earth has never
more weakly felt
the horrors that
parade each day
in front of us
as