After Eden
Harold J. Recinos
After Eden
Copyright © 2018 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.
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199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
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paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-5462-6
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-5463-3
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-5464-0
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 09/17/15
The Crossing
after crossing the border
our village kin anointed
with blood, the earth behind
us kissed a last time, with
fingers on brown hands
pointing north like the surest
way to Eden, the quiet birds
in curious stare, in a darkened
universe that makes us tremble
before coming light, our ears
are tuned to lying words like
arrows in wait. we crawl the
final distance into the North
the bodies of those who did
not make it still cooling in
the desert night in shallow
graves, our tears swallowed
up by the curved darkness
of a strange new world, the
piteous wails of children in
tow with scraped knees, and
the fatigue felt from dragging
lingering fears. once we are on
the other side, we will pray
for God to make small the
loathing tongues and violent
acts that leave us without a
drop of life and distant yet
from Eden.
Shithole
these are not pious times
with politicians reflecting
in the company of grace, or
a president detached from
the sinful impulses of hate.
the dispatches report daily
the lunacy of Trump who
with his faithful band tramples
on the weak, Black, Yellow,
Red and Brown. in this time of
sorrow Angels on Pennsylvania
Avenue pass the White House in
flight calling on memory, decency,
reason and faith to strip the perfect
emptiness from the man who panders
to White Supremacists and reduces
whole nations to the vulgar slang of
his intolerant tongue. in these times
loathing keeps its shape, spreads it
messages by the seconds, pounces
on its victims, and unflinchingly says
this makes the nation great! these are
not pious times, so let us begin to carry
America in fractured pieces to her well
dug and brand named grave.
Color
do you remember that first
day the roosters crowed in
the next-door apartment to
step out of the dark, inhaling
the smell of peeled oranges on
the carts heading to Southern
Boulevard with old men, the
intoxicating odors of a season
that had us lean into the day not
thinking of the reeking streets. do
you remember climbing on top
of it to gallop past the procession
of church goers dressed up like
it mattered to heaven, the pigeons
taking flight from us, the invisible
rushing down the street with us past
the old Cathedral where nothing ever
happened. do you remember losing
yourself in the little things of the
block, smiling at grandmothers with
shopping carts, the lost look on the
pale faces of Roman collared priests
trying to figure out how to name the
things they really love. dear brother,
I adore the way yesterday hands me the
splendor of such things, how that time
never yelled at us for speaking Spanish,
or having sweet brown skin. I have the
pleasure of such days with you inside
of me, which lets me laugh in a world
too often dressed for mourning.
Rudy
I learned to walk the streets carrying pieces of the moon
in my pocket to light the dark, lumbering along the avenue
thinking about the Lord without a single piece of the promised land
priests talked about in mass and grandmothers whispered was closer
than my brother. I passed the troubled church bells not far from the lily shops
on Jerome Avenue and the windy spot where you dear brother lifted your eyes
to the Cathedral that forgot your name long before you sighed a last
good-bye. I learned to walk along disbelieving good news, aware the
filthy streets were closer to me than the sweetly silent Lord. I walked the
very block where you were delivered to the arms of death, stood quietly on
your