The Mirador
Meet me at the mirador. I’ll be there when the rain stops,
looking for something I lost in the storm. Malleable men hustling tourists with
swollen purses, jewelry-makers selling quartz crystals out of their rucksacks,
en route to Bolivia, Argentinian lovers passing pipes before they blow on out
of town. The artisan mats become confessionals: this is where wandering souls
gather, says the craftsman, as the mangy street dogs curl up at his feet. Carved
of wood and warm like copper, when he smiles sparks the world into action. He
weaves the stars into jewelry but it isn’t enough, will never be enough. He
stands against the rail, just a silhouette and then some, Inti’s mural staring
back at him, with her button nose and book of chants, waving her boney finger
back. He seeks to master the knots of the world so that he can tie it back
together. I always ask too much, but teach me this, oh craftsman: teach me how
to tie myself together again. He laughs and sings a song I will never forget,
dancing away as the sun sets behind him.
Next I follow the music man. His songs feed him day-old
bread and his ears pick up things I cannot. When we walk through the lamp-lit
streets, his hands trace the mural walls and he tells me what they say: the
stain of tragedy and dirty blood echo softly, infused in the paint. We drink boxed wine with the man who
makes metal beasts, and we talk of death and how in three hundred years we will
be reunited as dogs, but we wish, really, to be reunited as astronomical kings
and queens—royal constellations. I want to meet again before then, I say. If we
do, he says, we will meet as we did tonight, on a bench, in a city that neither
of us belong to, and we will share other peoples’ stories. If we don’t, you
will meet someone else the same way, and you will drink wine with them and
speak of stars and dogs and it will never be a shame.
The Wolf House
In the wolf house there was a healer. Projections flashed on
the wall behind her, casting her face in red, yellow, green, blue. She watched
people and said, They move and sway and dance and jerk, and they don’t know
why. They kiss as if thrown together by marionette strings, but who is the
puppeteer? Then there are wolves and then there are machines...But my baby,
he’s something else: he’s a map. A map with blank territory, so much terrain,
and his face is the key, though I cannot read it. And you? What are you?” We
swim in yellow, blue, red, watching the people around us in different masks. All
the puppeteers, all the cartographers, pioneers and playwrights, will soon be
unleashed down the alleys left to write and dismantle their own narratives.
The Architect
I run rampant at last. Building fragile, towering things
bound to break and shatter with the next tidal wave the next earthquake. I wish
I could build better, for me and for you, wish I did not have to build a house
that, at night I hold my breathe in, so that the foundation does not crumble
and crush me in. I want a home tall enough to reach the moon and big enough to
include you. I want and I devour and the world sings sad songs played by
street-corner bluesmen. In the final moment of decay, a small child speaks
words that demolish
everything
I’ve made
And suddenly I want nothing more, I promise.
I want nothing more than to learn how to say these words
back.
I would not need to build a thing, for those words would be
my palace
if only I could speak
them!
I haven’t much, I’ve a collection of sorts.
Kings and queens of the winding streets, they left me with
these shards,
These broken things, and I wore them like a collar as I
asked for direction. Which way to get lost at sea, which way to get found en la
ciudad de perros románticos? It was not until you left that I unclasped the shards
from around my neck, and realized they were to be worn as crown. Now I march
into lost lands and let go of heavy hands. The meaningless I build shall be
nothing less than beautiful for I built it for you, in order to replace those
words I did not say.
Te echaré de menos.