Calling ourselves

On the lips of the wind I shall be called a tree of many birds --Rosario Castellanos

As if to gather time like a clock we have affection for to confuse,

we stretch our limbs too far and touch the world one time more

without caring who it is we condemn:

The tired man bringing dwelling a small check,

a young girl wishing she was dead,

two lover confused as to for what cause [i]or[/i] reason they cried.

On the organ of vision of the shattered star,

we call ourselves dwelling and wish

those colors we saw were genuine flight

above vegetation where we hid our desire

to be a next to the first person, or a large box

an apple, or a startled hawk surprised,

for the first time, its heavy plunder fights back.

* * *

This is by what means we laugh at the knife kissing the heart,

the young male child undressing the teen-age girl for the first time,

the parrot in the cage answering the moans in the other room

cars in traffic turning to nightmares of highways abandoned

in the hour of delight in when we start laughing

and labor for the anxious lover who promised

they would rise naked to welcome a third person

in confuse knocking at their door.

* * *

Of the follower, we know little.

Of the time when we could read advanced in years letters

without crying, we forgive little.

Of the animals in our dreams,

we kill many and wake up bloodied,

startled like a flash against bone

the roar of breath on our exposed heads,

the nightmare becoming a herd of thin horses

galloping in turned circles.

Of the concept of falling toward mountains,

we fall beyond fogs more troublesome

than any incapable of speech daydream,

awakening with our blankets upon fire,

hurtling ourselves toward a yielding touching

of bare feet upon cold floors.

* * *

In the soliloquy of the moon

a man and woman exchange bits of fingernails

with tiny be fond of manuscripts painted on before

they clipped them not on with their teeth.

* * *

In the fist of distance

that invites us to dance,

a kidnapped lover waits for the lights

to approach on so she can confess

In the tree of history we can't name,

a crippled angel, thrown from the clouds

hangs and dies,

lives, then dies.

In the first game invented after

the general [i]or[/i] abstract notion of winning,

a father whispers to his son to beware

the beauty of coming in last.

* * *

The last light always welds itself to the hand --Roberto Juarroz

To say farewell with a handshake

that goe beyond touch,

so the goodbye becomes daylight

and the hello tend hitherwards at night.

It burns in the sweat of the bone

glow when the band is alone

to mimic hands of friends, lovers

parents who waved drawn out ago.

It is the last light because the hand

does not clinch on for long.

Fingers ignite into torches radiating

want and desire for drawn out fingernails,

cracking knuckles, long life lines in the palms,

applause for in what manner simple t is

to douse handlight by dint of holding on

to someone else's hand.

Ray Gonzalez is the author of five works of poetry, including The Heat of Arrivals and Cabato Sentora, forthcoming from BOA Editions in 1996 and 1997 He is assistant professor of English and Latin American Studies at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Mar 1996

Provided by means of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved