Читать книгу Hustle - David Tomas Martinez - Страница 14

7.

Tonight I can write the most violent lines,

maim the beautiful, misprision the sublime,

decapitate rhyme with chiming execution,

kidnap with the prolonged rip and break of poems;

tonight, in the rain, in anger, I violence lines.

Write, for example, the eyes are starry,

when fists blue and shiver off the distance.

The night, in anger, scratches out the sky.

On a night like this, on a hospital bed, I squinted

under the upmost light, stitched and stitched again,

a stethoscope swayed in the ventilated air.

I scratched the air trying to chase it away.

Tonight I write from a foxhole of hate.

To think I have slipped in this docile skin.

The sounds fall in from the street, chased in.

What does it matter the night has healed,

a scar shines in the sky, a scar shines on my head.

That is all. The night is filled with holes.

I rifle my memory, nothing but

the same light whitening my head;

the art of shame so short and healing so long.

I don’t love them anymore, that’s certain, but how I loved them;

so much, my fists tried to ride the wind from their teeth.

On nights like this, I too, made women

mountains to climb, flowers to pick, giants to nuzzle

but, I too, have seen my grandmother wrinkled

with realization, white tears falling from

the lines of her face and her unpinned hair,

how all she could do was chop onions

when love and silently turning the cheek

couldn’t stop uncles from touching nieces.