You talk of hatred, bullets, bombs
and bad memories. Here
we inherit these things
from our fathers and mothers, who
in turn inherited them from theirs and sometimes their uncles and aunts too. For generations now we have fought to retain what is ours. We are the terrorists, anti-nationalists and even petty thieves and murderers. When our families find our dead and mutilated bodies, they do the last rites in secrecy and honor us as martyrs and heroes as best as they can.
Little face waiter in a white jacket,
contemptuously familiar
with his daily arena – Plaza Mayor,
Madrid where his hands slide red albums
on white tables.
against enveloping arms of red walls.
Red albums, finger-greased fogged photos
of scratch and sniff paellas.
It is that time again,
when the apples darken
to a shade shy of blood
and the air crisp like steel cuts as breath
through the death dry rattle of leaves.
For the first time in countless years
I fear death;
the absence of mint,
searching the trash,
then the soles of their feet for holes
drilled, not worn from asphalt
broken as bone.