Ringing Inside the Open Spaces of My Lungs, and: Neruda, Please Explain a Few Things
Buy Issue for $25 at JHUP- Ringing Inside the Open Spaces of My Lungs, and: Neruda, Please Explain a Few Things
RINGING INSIDE THE OPEN SPACES OF MY LUNGS
The sound of my mother forcing a tired heart to beat one more time.The sound of my mother’s weeping forcing sanity despite thinning veins.The sound of my grandmother’s wail stuck half way out, like fishbone,badly chewed.The sound of my grandmother’s heart attacking itself.I hollow out my lungs andin ribcage built temples,singing hymns and mouthing prayersfor these womenbecause who if not me,who? I invite their pain,to ring inside the open spaces of my lungsand be made song.Who if not me will share bitter communion.I am my mother’s useless veins, forcing life to flow,I am my grandmother’s mourning veil, she refuses to take off,I am the lungs that will breathe their airWhen they, too tired of life,Would rather breathe inNothing but,flowers.Nothing butflowers.Nothing butflowers. [End Page 623]
NERUDA, PLEASE EXPLAIN A FEW THINGS
Our father, Neruda,who is in the heavens,who is rustling condor feathersflying over Andean mountain rangeand Tawantisuyu holy land of golden potatoes,
in the ebb and flow of nameless men,and women, with soul of salt and wood,that populated towns with wine and oil,how many ashen colored feet, caked with earthhave used Neftali’s words as stepping stonesto reach Incan cosmic skies?
Neruda, biblical fishermannets cast over shoulder,overflowing with fish and verse,do you still keep the nameless close?Does vision in your eyes and voice on your tonguestill speak to them of eternity?Do the nameless still people the earth?
Do you still see foreign flieshovering over the sweetnessof the Central American causeway?Are the Banana Republicsfly free? Or does syrup still oozefrom the wounds of the earthcalling a new kind of fly? [End Page 624]
Do you still find need to explain a few things?Like blood of children, you said, running down the streetslike blood of, well, children.Do you still think twice before metering metaphysicsof volcanoes erupting in poppy flowersbecause somewhere in one of the Four Regions,a woman cries, or a child carries a rifle,or, a man is swallowed by sea,or someone’s heart has been broken under starry night?
Neruda,in your sepulchered space of scared earth,do ghosts cry?Can the dead feel the pains of the living?Do bones rumble when the earth quakes,shaken by unnatural forces?
Our father,who rests in heights of Machu Picchu,is there still silence and leavened bread?Did your poems ever write themselvesas prophets of hope?Because the love and beautiful desireThey spoke about,persists.Because the pain and lasting anguishThey spoke about,persists.
Is there any hope nestledamong the rubbles of Macho Picchu,or any other stone temple? [End Page 625]
GERARDO POLANCO was born in Belize, received his bachelor’s degree in English at the University of Belize, and completed his graduate work in Caribbean studies at the University of the West Indies, Cave Hill, Barbados.
