Stony the Road. Harold J. Recinos

experience whistling

      wind and come a bit closer

      to God’s heavenly home.

      The Trump Crusade

      I have watched events unfolding

      for weeks waiting to hear a word

      to comfort those who innocently

      suffer like Christ without possibility

      of resurrection, talking every night

      with the stars that silently listen

      to the terrible stories the migrants

      share. I have watched the scattered

      clouds roam overhead miraculously

      carrying thousands of tears shed by

      caged kids with carved crosses worn

      around their necks, while trying my

      very best to find strength to search

      for sacramental bread, simple Masses,

      and even thimble prayers from those

      who claim to care in a world gone so

      mad. I have listened to the words of

      people fond of clicking their heels, felt

      my heart dragged by a black Suburban

      with politicians singing America the

      beautiful in it, observed wingless Angels

      move helplessly around shouting Spanish

      names to white kin who sing the national

      anthem without questioning what the future

      will bring to this piece of geography called

      by a colorful many home. without knowing

      why I wait for truth to kick aside the mouths

      full of loathing to make room for nobler voices

      that will guide good people to undo

      these dark hours before what remains

      of America is a giant pile of ashes.

      The Stone

      the last time I looked in the

      alley there were clotheslines

      stretched from wall to wall in

      it, with cheap threads tightly

      pinched by pins to them, and

      faces looking out of windows

      longing to be someplace other

      than the South Bronx. I made

      up stories about the dark shirts

      like the one flapping like a flag

      that belonged to Angel’s father

      in prison, the black shawls hung

      to dry worn by the old woman in

      love with church, the pretty blouses

      worn by Jessica that she made look

      handmade, and the occasional nasty

      blond hair wig. I saw these things

      almost daily wondering whether they

      could pray or know anything about the

      blocks exhausted gods, could they tell

      me why the police batons beat Willy

      long enough to make the buildings

      scream and the little children screech

      with tiring fear. on the way to public

      school 66 each morning I would

      glance at the alley aware the rest of

      the city doesn’t even know the people

      who only own clotheslines live here,

      then by the end of a week I would visit

      the Saturday night confessional to tell

      an Irish priest who just learned to speak

      Spanish the damn stone where we live

      is just never rolled away.

      Migrant Woman

      in the wrinkled black and white

      photo she holds the Holy Book

      with sweat streaming down her

      earth colored brow. with dark

      eyes in a slender migrant farmer

      frame she hopes to break free. I

      expect you know the fields that

      consume her, the misty bleeding

      landscape, the fretting hours spent

      with others bent, the riches made

      from her wounds, and the Spanish

      tears she fetches from her most

      intimate well. keep her divine

      image in front of you, let the part

      of you that is dead, stand beside

      her with news that we are entirely

      set free, rip out God’s pages from

      the book, request with fire in your

      words the Holy keys, use them to

      make the callous world tremble and

      kiss for her sake the wicked dark

      good-bye.

      Genesis

      I remember playing on the

      streets for hours and spinning

      tops with friends who loved