After Eden. Harold J. Recinos
the girls drenched in
tears who had the good sense to
join a labor union went on strike
to fight like gods to win their living
wages and safer times on the assembly
lines. they even said the strike was
the kind of prayer Jesus heard loud
and clear enough to make him take a
stand against the dreaded boss’s fingers
that rested too often on their Puerto
Rican hips. for years she worked in
the toy factory listening each day to her
broken English making sweet sounds like
the grandmothers who came to America
young to give children their best made
dreams. one day without prior notice,
the mother realized these kids feed oatmeal
before school were living a history better
than her years spent wrinkling in a South
Bronx factory.
The Raid
this morning last night’s
workplace raid is over, the
waiters are busy sweeping
sidewalks in the dim light
of a broken moon, a new day
starts them thinking about
rounded up friends in federal
cages who for thousands of
miles will sing the beauties
they are denied and the foul
ignorance bruising them once
again. frightened, the locked
up call out, bitter tears dropping
to the jail cell floor from their
brown cheeks, their lungs inhaling
the stale air that discloses the hate
chiseling grave stones in the dark
with Spanish names. the customers
start arriving for a first meal and
the waiters left behind wonder how
long the country will feed on lies
carefully wrapped like bible story
gifts!
The Spot
I sat behind the little park tree
like it was in the rain forest in
the ascending light of a chilly
morning. the Fort Apache police
parked their car next to the bloody
stain at the other end of the patchy
grassed park, where a young mother
moaned, a priest prayed and the
kids on the block who passed the spot
on foot each day claimed they saw
an Angel with long hair looking over
it. I waited quietly for the beauty of
the block to come walking down the
street, speaking loudly about glorious
things to come, pointing to the paths
calling us to walk with enormous strides
to the very end of the road where neighborhood
church bells ring. whenever tired of the
misaligned world, I would go to that spot
calling on South Bronx spirits to make
dark voices still. I often laughed with
the browning leaves blown by the wind
in that little park that was hidden from
the rest of the city and was comforted by
its sickly trees and song birds kept just
right for my barrio streets.
Latino Heritage Month
at the border, the guards
have already forgotten this
month belongs to the broken
who are walking to the barrios
to anglicize a new generation
of names, survive its gangster
violence, make homes far from
odious gatekeepers, and dream
with their new American children
beneath the Northern stars. on these
shores, the men who run the government
long ago proclaimed this month a time to
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.