Breathing Space. Harold J. Recinos
a dirty old tag in what was
left of our place—like losing
a good old friend!
My Country
my country where do you
exist from sea to sea, how
long will it be until liberty
like the air breathed is for
everyone, when will your
national borders reflect the
memory of Brown blood
spilled, how long before your
compass lets you march to
our Spanish graves, where
people who sacrificed life for
you are permanently at rest?
my country will you ever hear
these sweet voices calling, say
loud our names, and write history
in your Spanish tongue? my country,
how long do you think it possible
to wander with closed eyes, deny
the history in your face, and cover
white hearts with hate and neatly
piled high lies? sweet land of liberty
confess freedom too rings for dark
Americans like me!
Look
we will close our eyes after leaving
the subway station, pass the people
hanging on the corner, standing on a
cinema line, looking at display windows
on Southern Boulevard with longing
on their faces, the ice cream vendor
flipping insults to the cops who took
away his spot, the thin old lady slowly
crossing the street with a grocery cart
still covered in dust, and the kids playing
on the block with games made of honest
junk. we will walk swinging a broom like
an eye stick trying not to fall on the cracked
sidewalk, listening to the breadline cries
in front of the social services department,
and mothers like loudspeakers moaning at
the Ortiz Funeral Home. when we reach
the distant corner, we will open our eyes
to join a crowd looking at the sky yelling
Spanish curses at an absent God.
Amen
the candles are burning in the
basement chapel of the church,
on altars in cheap apartments, in
the hands of junkies cooking
dope in the alley, and the dark
places in need of light. the voices
at prayer wonder whether the long
hours discussing things with God
are worth it, even when the most
sweetly crafted words remain on
lips for the long walks past all the
amen corners. the small group in
Emilia’s apartment declares vintage
lines, muses deeply within about how
a plate of rice and beans offers more
than promises of godlike rest, visits
from ministering Angels, and the
peace of Christ that never does seem
to come. what is going on in the Holy
Book they read that is so unaware of
their raucous screams? why are those
hallowed words so dull on the block?
they keep praying though convinced
by the mysteries of faith, the Almighty
hears!
Raids
we live on a street that tells
time without clocks, the weeks
going by find us fumbling for
bolstering words to be carried
in the pockets of worn paints. we
wonder why the bells in the tower
of the local church watching over
us never stop the days that darken
our tender hearts. often, we gather
on the rooftops of old tenements
to stare at the evening stars, resolve
with gentle conversation the weight
of fearful ventures to work booked
for ICE raids. we take turns in poorly
furnished apartments lighting candles
to plead for heaven to quickly satiate
our thirst, eradicate hunger, bring an
end to poverty and prison bars. some
days, we fiercely pray out loud for better
days to come imagining the border crossing
like fruit pulled from Eden’s best giving
tree.
Holy Mother
his mother lit a candle every night
before the image of the Holy Lady
of God to keep him safe. the still figure
on the altar listened to prayers of supplication
without end not saying a single word
and her exquisitely sad eyes knew there
was very little for her to do. for him the
day without blessing came speaking in
fluent curses on Walton Avenue and a
sickness ended his tender life. he was
with us for two decades aching for other
things, rejecting the idea that hope was
an empty house, in love with candle holders
in the local Catholic church, the comforting
presence of sisters and priests, and the solemn
ceremonies of Mass—it was swept away on a
South Bronx night. the mother still lives in the
same old tenement, more wrinkled and bent after
so