Voices on the Corner. Harold J. Recinos

Voices on the Corner - Harold J. Recinos


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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


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