Loose Words on Yesterday

I

at nightfallthe dust was a stray dogcommander of every curve along the waymy steps, mother,not hollowor elusivejust happyuneasy

visitorsreturned from a great distancea few monthsyears, maybe

it is getting late, motherthe wind like a peaceful serpentbeats on the crosses and stonesthere are flags in the mangrovesthe rushesthe pinesthe years run in my mindthe sorrowsthe joys

because time has passed, motherit is not a distant 1942 or 1969it is not even January 16thtwo years and some months agonow time is a silent songthat sleeps for no reasona sentence unconsciously servedwhile blinded

the village, san ramónsinks between the stones and the seaits homes lose their foundations and footprintstheir ancient skeletons go darkthey devour their inhabitantsthey drive them to the few small places that remainpristine with lifeto the tapping of fingersbarely awake

it is getting latechanting of the lord's prayerholy mary full of gracei light a candlein the smokean aged complacencyi am alarmed bythe innocence of your small eyesfacing the visions of men and existence itselfyour ideas above their ideastheir ideas above your ideas

it is getting late, motherthe wind from the beach brings an ever-present peacedeath is in the surroundingsi read namesdatesi am interrupted by a simultaneous sting of heartbreak

from my leftfrom my rightin reality, i am almost still insidei break down

it was getting latethe candle grew larger and largerthe bow the arrow the spearwaved like flags and burnedthe silhouettes and shadowscame forth in vibrationstaking up all of my senses

it is getting late, mothermen become dogs along the waythey float from one room to the nextfrom one corner years agoseconds ago, anotheri sit with pallid feetabove my ancestors, the whole treebefore you

it is a dark night and time is densethe light is a vast dancethe universe is visible and smallthundering in the distancemy footsteps, motherplay out the beat of death of life

II

grandfather and i in our rocking chairsafter succulent afternoon spreads in the abundance of the '80swe breathed a marine stabilityserenityunder the sweetsop tree

back thengrandfather carried in his handsthe weight of a sugar mill, filled with yearshe didn't ponder much anymorejust tended to nod off peacefullyi had barely been bornmy pristine little handsdreaming up melodies for the poemswith a drive that still shocks mebut i didn't ponder much either

there we would pass the early hours of the afternoonunder the shade of the sweetsop treein front of our home where we could hearthe distant rumble of frothy wavesthe rhythm of a Mexican rancherathe sweet smell of fresh coffee from the sierraan adiós pitched by any given passerbythe look on my grandmotheralways in the windowsitting, she was sick and deep in thought

my grandfather and i are still theremy grandparents have not pondered anything for a long timefirst my grandmother stopped ponderingthen my grandfather wanted to stop rocking in his rocking chairand ponderinghe no longer sought the comfort of his napsi am there toothough far awayand more and more pensivethinking about

that rocking chair, which has become enormousthe sweetsop tree, which no longer existsand in its eternal, oceanic shadow cast from behind

this house has painful pillars