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Nov 142011
 

by Charlie Guzman

Dear Father,

 

I’m here.
I’m among the smudging palm trees of
my airplane window,
among my translucent reflection.
I’m among the people speaking in tongues:
“Que bien, que bien.”
I walk in tile cracks;
through security and
Bacardi bottles.
I get lost in labyrinthine corridors,
meeting my luggage
at the middle of
baggage claim.

A man offers me a taxi, speaks English.
I smile, say
si.
The sky is cloudless.
Airplanes become mosquitoes,
their engines leaking
blood.
I ride the taxi “home.”
Thirty bucks, with
tip.

Cubist house: Our home.
Paint peels in tears,
exposing the bony concrete.
I see the blocks and their arthritic
joints.
I see a staircase
guarded by crested anoles.
They attach themselves to the slanted
corners of the
walls.
They even sunbathe on the slats
of the jalousies
that leaks me into your empty
room.
I see the ants huddle in the corner.
A mirror reflects
the cinereous web poised
above their heads.

I take to exploring
the cracked panapen
leaking white blood
into the drain
of vertigo road.

I explore with feral dogs,
who claw and chew
at my sides.
We hunt the pieces of past –
broken watch gears
guarded by iguanas.

I explore in silence.
I speak my own tongue.
I speak the null.

Sincerely,
Tu Hiyo.
13 July

 

Dear Hermano,

 

I pick watch gears
from iguana nests.
I stumble upon mangos
comprised of
hypodermic needles.

You stalk me from a piece of
broken mirror
clutched in the skeletal hand
of a ruby conquistador.

I follow the shadows
of hanged men,
nooses still around their
necks.
They slither across
the walls
painting stripes with duck
blood.

I run the very boundaries
of our barrio
chasing the sun!
I swallow the horizon!

Sincerely,
Isa Isa.
13 July

 

Dear Mother,

 

I’m here, at the old
house.
The old walls
have kept their cubist shape,
except for some holes.
They were gored by
the ivory bulls of Spain.

Ants hide in the corner
of your room.
A lone spider – a hand above them.
They live together in a framed picture
of constant
war.

I walk through the vein roads.
Asphalt bleeds down
the hills.
Dogs maraud.

Kittens hide in tropical shrubs
eating mangos.

I watch you from the eyes of a child.
She sang, like a finch, and
flew away.

Love,
Tu Hiyo, Isabalino.
13 July

 

Dear Love,

 

I took the side roads
to the moment
I met you.

It hung heavy on my heart.

I smiled profusely
at the vines
of your hair, your
brown skin.

You took off
on your own path,
leaving me your
voice.

I hold those lips
on my neck.

I stand at the
descent, the road, into
Juncos.

I surrender
in a breath.

Sincerely,
Isabalino.
14 July

 

Dear Love,

 

I happened upon of boulder of marble,
and thought of you.

I sculpted the boulder into
a black mangrove
and placed it

on the roof of my
house.

Birds and lizards took up nest,
peacefully.

I named it after you.

Sincerely,
Isabalino.
15 July

 

Dear Mother,

 

I scaled the lone tree
belonging to us –
to cut down the
last panapen.

Instead, it was an
eye –
a giant brown eye.

I sliced it into
my arms;
cradled it into
the kitchen.

Then, I carved it down
the middle.
It bloomed into a
translucent flower.
Its petals of disaster
stretched to each end of
the kitchen counter.
A metal stem
shot from it, with
drops of Indigo poison.
I cupped the drops to my lips.

I became immortal.

I became dream.

Love,
Tu Hiyo, Isabalino.
20 July