After Eden. Harold J. Recinos

      After Eden

      Copyright © 2018 Harold J. Recinos. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-5462-6

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-5463-3

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-5464-0

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. 09/17/15

      The Crossing

      after crossing the border

      our village kin anointed

      with blood, the earth behind

      us kissed a last time, with

      fingers on brown hands

      pointing north like the surest

      way to Eden, the quiet birds

      in curious stare, in a darkened

      universe that makes us tremble

      before coming light, our ears

      are tuned to lying words like

      arrows in wait. we crawl the

      final distance into the North

      the bodies of those who did

      not make it still cooling in

      the desert night in shallow

      graves, our tears swallowed

      up by the curved darkness

      of a strange new world, the

      piteous wails of children in

      tow with scraped knees, and

      the fatigue felt from dragging

      lingering fears. once we are on

      the other side, we will pray

      for God to make small the

      loathing tongues and violent

      acts that leave us without a

      drop of life and distant yet

      from Eden.

      Shithole

      these are not pious times

      with politicians reflecting

      in the company of grace, or

      a president detached from

      the sinful impulses of hate.

      the dispatches report daily

      the lunacy of Trump who

      with his faithful band tramples

      on the weak, Black, Yellow,

      Red and Brown. in this time of

      sorrow Angels on Pennsylvania

      Avenue pass the White House in

      flight calling on memory, decency,

      reason and faith to strip the perfect

      emptiness from the man who panders

      to White Supremacists and reduces

      whole nations to the vulgar slang of

      his intolerant tongue. in these times

      loathing keeps its shape, spreads it

      messages by the seconds, pounces

      on its victims, and unflinchingly says

      this makes the nation great! these are

      not pious times, so let us begin to carry

      America in fractured pieces to her well

      dug and brand named grave.

      Color

      do you remember that first

      day the roosters crowed in

      the next-door apartment to

      step out of the dark, inhaling

      the smell of peeled oranges on

      the carts heading to Southern

      Boulevard with old men, the

      intoxicating odors of a season

      that had us lean into the day not

      thinking of the reeking streets. do

      you remember climbing on top

      of it to gallop past the procession

      of church goers dressed up like

      it mattered to heaven, the pigeons

      taking flight from us, the invisible

      rushing down the street with us past

      the old Cathedral where nothing ever

      happened. do you remember losing

      yourself in the little things of the

      block, smiling at grandmothers with

      shopping carts, the lost look on the

      pale faces of Roman collared priests

      trying to figure out how to name the

      things they really love. dear brother,

      I adore the way yesterday hands me the

      splendor of such things, how that time

      never yelled at us for speaking Spanish,

      or having sweet brown skin. I have the

      pleasure of such days with you inside

      of me, which lets me laugh in a world

      too often dressed for mourning.

      Rudy

      I learned to walk the streets carrying pieces of the moon

      in my pocket to light the dark, lumbering along the avenue

      thinking about the Lord without a single piece of the promised land

      priests talked about in mass and grandmothers whispered was closer

      than my brother. I passed the troubled church bells not far from the lily shops

      on Jerome Avenue and the windy spot where you dear brother lifted your eyes

      to the Cathedral that forgot your name long before you sighed a last

      good-bye. I learned to walk along disbelieving good news, aware the

      filthy streets were closer to me than the sweetly silent Lord. I walked the

      very block where you were delivered to the arms of death, stood quietly on

      your