Other Seasons. Harold J. Recinos
wondering what not keeping the Sabbath had to
do with this lost key and decided to wander in to
light a few candles. I sat in the third pew for a few
moments listening to a priest who happened to sing,
hoping my crowded head would remember this of all
things. I wanted to grow old with that key, have it
unlock my Eden whenever needed for a taste of peace,
and let it store sweet memories in rooms I alone would
enter. no matter how hard I thought the key did
not come back to me, I cried for ancient tongues
to speak the secret of lost objects, and kept walking
around like a child in search of Jerusalem in the Bronx
for the tiny little opener with a red dot on it that
would open my mother’s apartment door—home
to me. I still foolishly yearn to find it in a sidewalk
crack, beneath an old cushion at church, on an altar
in a grocery store with plastic Saints, or in the pocket
of the last domino player on the block who will say
I found it!
[Psalm 137]
by the rivers along the border, we
sat and wept with memories of the
villages that taught us to believe
in happiness. there under the cashew
trees, we frolicked in the evening glow
with music played on strings the soldiers
one day would toss in an impetuous stream
they watched turn red with our blood. how
can we sing on the other side of this river
in the North? where is our highest joy,
the holy ground, the Lord that will repay
them for our weaknesses and deaths? when
will our stammering tongues sing again to
send away those who stomp us to the ground
in this foreign place? what peace will come to
us, now? what justice will overtake the owners
of this world and their fallen souls? who will
remember us like cherished flowers to be held?
cursing the violence of war, on this river bank,
vengeance is not our dream, life is the truest
thing we bid to put an end to the threats hanging
above our heads and dropping us without tears
into fresh foreign earth.
[The Mural]
ablaze, the candles burned
beside the wall of Big Pun
with flowers around them,
the kids stood in front of the
mural with bowed heads glad
to praise the one who sang against
the jeering eyes uptown, the disapproving
priests, and an angry God who they
say forgets to save. the mother big
with another child, holding a little girl’s
hand, stared at the wall like someone
seeing into a mirror waiting for truth to
ripen in her eyes. when her lips began
moving the gathered listened to her
say Mr. Rios we have passion left to
love the block, you remain sweet for
for us and the children like to stop in
front of this wall to cobble hope and
rap. in the silence of the afternoon,
before the crowd dispersed, a prayer
was said to remember the secrets of our
brown skin ancient like dark mother
earth.
[Clouds]
its late into the night of this
August summer and I sit quietly
with closed eyes feeling all the
years behind me without a thought
in mind. I put down a book that
made good company filled with
an inexplicable happiness the stories
of Julio Cortázar succeed to deliver.
in the dark, enjoying the light of a
small lamp, I imagine voices shouting
from pages to describe the clouds hiding
a sky full of stars, leaves rustling in near
autumn trees, lovers parting again with
unbearable regret, and a child about to
speak. I lean forward like someone in a
mystery waiting for words to lunge from
the dark, which in great stories, find many
ways to say you are beloved on earth.
[The Amusement Park]
the rain stopped, and the Sunday dress
kids in the building waiting it out, begin
to walk quickly in the damp air toward
church like people with unfinished
business. time in Tito’s pocket ticked
loud enough for him to clinch his hand
around a strapless watch before it got
all used up. they waited patiently for God
to speak each Sunday but only noticed the
priest a little more bald, widows dressed
in black, babies loudly crying, young girls
with scarves covering their long hair, and
most of the block praying for another Paradise.
their hearts that morning were already in the
amusement park sitting on the side of a
New Jersey cliff, inviting them on Easter to
fly beneath the clouds in wild rides to make
them hold the air. with their eyes closed in the
middle of Mass where a little bell sounds ringing
faults, they whispered to each other imagine what
it would be like to have to spend the day here and
never Palisades Amusement Park. when the tolling
bell