Breathing Space. Harold J. Recinos
will wake us today
to the ongoing darkening
of light across the nation,
to the ignorance moving
up and down the streets
battering strangers brown
like Christ the pale faces
say makes them diseased?
what will make us sick of
the suffering, the poisoning
hate, the neighbors quietly
becoming willing tools, the
broken bodies beneath the
weight of white power? how
long until we hear the crying
sounds of knotted throats, the
plain truth annihilated on city
streets, the blistering crosses
aflame and deaf to shouted pleas?
when will the country plot a
course to mercy, hope, justice
and peace?
Factory Girl
once again you are home
from the factory slipping out
of work clothes covered with
scraps of cloth you spent the day
cutting. you undo the fake pearl
necklace laying it on the altar next
to the Cross then take off shoes to let
swollen feet begin their bare tour of
the apartment without pain. you walk
to the bedroom window sliding it open
to have a look at the potted flowers on
the fire escape that eagerly call out your
name like prayer trying to reach the ears
of the everlasting. in the kitchen by the sink
full of last night’s dishes you recall being a
child of Spanish earth and digging soil with your
hands to help corn and beans squeeze through
land to grow. now, your rough hands with broken
nails are clamped to a factory machine you work
while sitting on a pitiable stool to make the petty
wages keeping you in a cramped fifth-floor room
with scanty daily bread. when the clock strikes
nine you go sit in your living room with an old
Bible to pray with used hope for an end to this
unforgiving spell.
The Vigil
we came to the vigil to
light candles for tragic
times, hold light up to
the dark, bear witness to
justice despite the protests
of those born another way.
we came with voices to
condemn the ghastly white
cotton sheets their bodies drape,
and the hating tongues they
flap on our streets. we came
with signs in hand, voices to
give evil a name, and in living
colors that have never given
God a reason to complain.
Cobbled Street
we searched for days on the
cobbled streets of the Bronx
still bearing witness to stories
believed on them by the old
who longed for distant lands, the
stones still pounded by footsteps
keeping time with the hard labor of
the poor, and their children who never
grow tired of skipping on them without
touching a single crack. some nights
on a probing stroll guided by weak
light coming from tenement windows,
we offered scathing prayers to heaven
trusting it would motivate a serious
conversation with the Maker who doled
out more than a few mistakes without
giving a simple explanation. one night, we
decided to walk dragging our feet over the
stone, sing a few songs to stray dogs scavenging
rubbish cans, look into the dark until our eyes
adjusted to clearly see, and then listen closely for
strange words that came prancing up the street
in a well-traveled body sharing wisdom about the
beginning, end and whole damn big thing.
Night
last night, I woke to the sound
of the wind gusting outside the
apartment window, listened to
it searching for a message to
borrow from the other side of
the border, where laughter is
still more real than the tears
pouring to the city sidewalks,
I prayed in the shivering arms of
night, a quick word would float
into the room that you somehow
would see in the walk north a light
in front of the building and then
make your way to it. in the mournful
village you left behind, on the soft lips
that kissed you farewell, across a shrinking
distance, I could almost hear the wildly
shouted praise of the tiny church offering
you the company of a border crossing God
to carry on the weary trip. I will stay awake
waiting for the telephone to ring and
in the bare night hear your sweet brown
lips declare, I am here!
The Fire
there are flashes to make
you wonder who reads the
history books packed with
screams hurled from brown
skinned and despised people
like me. we have lived for