Читать книгу Stony the Road - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 11

I have survived longer than

the violent nights that left

me with mysterious gifts,

laden with the sound of your

voices that still haunt these

streets and only your sweet

traces know how to penetrate

my darkness. I have spent a

lifetime offering explanations

for the broken worlds God must

see, remembering the names of

our streets, the building numbers,

the public schools, the polished

nails worn by the Puerto Rican

girls, the smell of apartments

with food slowly cooking on

stoves, the Spanish words on cut

paper placed on bedroom altars

full of Saints with otherworldly

looks and the nightmares made

from hellish times. nothing is

like having you roam about in

my dreams, hearing you carefully

tell stories refined in the afterlife

and observing your lewd gestures

for God who took you from these

streets. I still hum the old tunes

we listened to until dawn every

Saturday on the stoop, sit quietly

watching evening shadows sink into

darkness and pray to make the

flowers on the fire escape send

touchable miracles.