Breathing Space
Harold J. Recinos
Breathing Space
Copyright © 2017 Harold J. Recinos. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-3949-4
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-3950-0
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-3951-7
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
The Block
someone told me in a few
days the wind would bring
news of the neighborhood
sliding into perfection, yet
it will not be easy to see with
ordinary eyes, but the birds
resting on the rooftops will
flap their wings to see it clear
for us. as it takes a firm hold
not one disillusionment on the
block will make us think life
is hunger, longing, sadness,
tragedy and loss. someone told
me there must be a religion for
all these brown lives living in
the neighborhood, light-hearted talk
of Tito’s grandfather dancing on
on his only leg, exquisite words
to carry us to the depths, and long
descriptions of a place greater than
the evidence of broken lives. someone
told me to be patient in the world of
poverty and tattered dress, perfection
is just up the street, humming its way
to us and will soon slip with large eyes
unto our street.
First Day
I remember sharpened pencils
out the night before the first day
of school on a notebook, holding
on to the idea of scribbling new
thoughts about why old women on
the block never learned to speak
a lick of English, finding novel ways
to see with clarity our end of the
city that was never held up to a
hint of light, and seeing words
from some tome lunge at me to
reveal why the kids with Spanish
sounding names found their way
into dark boxes marked for the grave
dressed up lastly in new suits with
black laced shoes shining for eternal
rest. with pencil and notebook in
hand, I would arrive early at school
take my seat like an envoy from a foreign
land eager for new lessons, and within
seconds it was clear the teachers expected
someone else in the room, after repeating
with patronizing smiles, “You are not to
speak Spanish at school!”
Name
when, you cross the
border to this new land
what risks wait for you
beyond the unannounced
raids at work, or the quiet
walks with your kids, or
the Sunday break in a local
park, or the morning rides
on the bus, or the meal taken
in the American coffee shop
across the street? when, la migra
bangs on your thin apartment
door seeking to slam you in
a tax made cell, will you look
back to shout good-bye to your
American born kids, will you
tell another friend to avoid the
bright lights? when the avalanche
of hate comes toward you in the
loud thudding footsteps of pale-faced
men eager to give you a fresh thorn
crown will you remember your
own precious name?
The Road
they followed a yellow brick road
across two borders without the sight
of day, waded across forbidden currents
in an ancient river while vultures circled
overhead, whispered on the long walk to
a poor Crucified King, and prayed for a
thousand miracles to hurry down from
heaven to deliver them to their Emerald
City. they slept in the desert like tossed
out rags, scribbled dreams in the soil of
the North, evaded the militia men with
a hunger for blood, and questioned the
land of freedom for dark skin. they
settled in cities hiding amid crowds,
raised children to speak ingles without
Spanish drawls, boys grew up to serve in
foreign wars, girls imagined a white marriage
would keep them from a wooden cross, and
elders prayed for an end to building the nation
with the price of dark blood. they keep coming
to El Norte, where nothing is secure, with pockets
full of need, strangers with dreams, yearning for
a place to call home.
Awake