for Carlos Pellicer
Pissing the moonlit snow
from blue to gold, imperial owls
taloning the branches and swept
rocking on a tide of icy air.
In the stillness of a desert town,
in a booth outside the barber shop,
the phone will ring and a hand react
against the window, to lift the receiver
and find the horror of that familiar voice.
* * * *
Family photo-album of a monster,
captions in pink and gold,
the clippings blurred or clear.
No common type although
a certain shared brightness.
At first glance simply strangers
who one day walked through the same door,
entitled to that dead equality
of being next in line.
* * * *
That afternoon when we collided
in the courtyard of the Ferrocarrillo
Museum and I was in a cold sweat
of panic, thinking I’d been waiting
for you all that time in the wrong room.
I was so furious with you that I
covered your face, your hands, with kisses.
* * * *
Light uncoils, serpents down
the butcher’s lordly apron,
the white tiles flecked with slaughter,
the delicate chest-level spray.
One half expects the horror
of a naked Christ, hooked
to the glass ceiling, and a guard,
asking the password not once
but forever till it’s found.
* * * *
They showed me photographs
that should have proved
the crucifixion had been staged,
a fake, a trick.
But I looked away as soon as I realized
what they were and just kept repeating
but I saw the holes in her hands,
how do you explain the holes in her hands?