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The thwarting is the flame
that lights the wick,
the stubborn ‘no’ to the imperious ‘yes’.
We’re only brothers when they want our blood
for what’s more natural than brotherhood.
And if we choose to split, and if we can,
what is humane if you can cite mankind
and then return to borders that are barred
and boats of refugees who drown at sea.

Full of it (To Pau)

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The milk he’s gurgling down

inflates my son

 

soon like his bottle

he will shake me up

 

when he can crawl

and come his school report

 

so when he tells me:

“Dad, you’re full of shit.”

 

I’ll think back on those nappies

how I changed

 

those panda nights

I cupped him to my breast

 

my mewling bobblehead

tanked up on gas

 

and I will answer:

Son, not shit, just hope.”

San Juan, Barceloneta

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The gremlins of San Juan
explode a cherry bomb
by lazing feet whose
sandalled fat toes flinch.

The coins in your hand glimmer
like the moon, and everywhere
people play at being stars, and
the sky is flame for summer.

Tomorrow, the police will strip
the land of human comets, and
rubbish carts pick through the rubble.
Tonight, you are the cusp of it all.

 

 

Picture featured in this post is Barcelona. Author – Moyan Brenn, Source – Flickr License – Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC by 2.0)

Visitation rites

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Father outsider, a throaty caller, skin

feathered by claw and mange, squats

in his fur tuxedo, shrieks upon the fence.

“We’re not letting him in,” I tell my daughter

who thrilled by the furore hopes to see blood,

her for whom liquid is instinctual,

her for whom ire is a sweet delirium.

I usher her away from the window to

the whelps from the milk-glow wet teats.

The trilling of the brood is our succour,

is a sister sound to the silent telephone,

is as hope hollowed out with words,

“I promise I won’t be late to pick her up this time.”

 

Picture featured in this post is Major Tom. Author – Lauren Mitchell. Source - Flickr License –Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic