Individual Poems

BOYS
    A torturer does not redeem himself through suicide. 
     But it does help. 
                                     - Mario Benedetti


The boys from the neighbourhood,
some of them, stay
behind the mud and the rain.

I ask myself what has become of
Romero, Quezada, Coleman?
Did their bodies and souls
escape deterioration?

Did they go into the army
to do their duty as soldiers
of the fatherland, the ones
who protect us from hate and 
foreign tyrants?

Did they climb like the General
by usurping through disloyalty,
lies, secret codes and
finally through money?

Did they have families and
continue living in the city
as if nothing had happened?

Or did they sell their modest houses,
move to another neighbourhood where
no one knows anything about them?

 There they will come in the evening and
will wash the remnants of dried 
blood from their fingers.

Will they look for their wives,
give them a kiss, touch their bodies
with those same hands?

Will their daytime nightmares
be cast upon those who know
nothing of where they
come at the end of the night?
Will they return their heads,

smashed by the memories they left
in the cells, streets, apartments 
to a soft warm pillow
that washes away their sacrileges?

What happened to the men
I knew and never saw again?
Did they turn themselves into
men hungry for justice or
did they leave little by little in silence?

Did they put on their clothes
in the morning without knowing
whether they would return in 
the evening to their dear ones?

Did they learn to kill in
clandestine training or
did they become more men with the
passing of these hard times?

Did they love like those pure men
I met on those evenings
when to play was
all our universe?



HOW CHAOS
BEGINS

A butterfly flying in the streets of 
Santiago on a September day.



VALENTINE'S DAY IN
DETROIT
                 For E.


The sounds of children playing in the snow,
a bunch of orange roses and a sign
”By my Valentine“
on the round surface of this day. 

Are these moments similar
to the ones we dreamt of?
We couldn’t answer, we are not others.
We are the ones standing still,
almost faceless.

 Here we are inventing words
on this hammock despite
the baby spit.

 A house untied to the ground,
a laundry room of nostalgias,
a window clouded by
little sleep, a coat of 

memories we remove
every February, a simple grin
and a Sanders chocolate box,
then, we grow to the
light like sweet peas.





ABSOLUTION
                        For M. Conejeros


When the call of the rooster awakens me once again in the morning
and the dark red of dusk enters through my pupils and doesn't hurt
my heart, when my voice can pronounce
again his name and the ground that 
I  walk upon cannot be so hard and cold
and winter disappears, when
your children and my children can play
all day without brawls, and the sounds 
of the street are all recognizable and clear,
not foreign, you and I can 
look into each other’s eyes
and discover that we still can smile,
when you come looking for me and need
to know if I am there, I will tell you
that I’ve never left, I have always been waiting
for an encounter, a tear that will fall down your cheek
to wash way forever the misery of having lost him.

April 10, 2001

 
DETROIT

When I drive down from
Grosse Pointe on Warren
a sudden knot in my heart
is born.

Solitude is roaming
with the images of
a city broken and gone.

I cross my fingers
hoping I won't see
any black cats crossing
these steaming manholes.

Detroit, so full of churches,
so where is God?


Could He be hiding
under politicians'coats?

A "mon cher" looked
through my car window
and believed he melted snow.

His eyes aflame
consumed two seconds
when the red light stopped.

City in flames,
who took away your palaces?

It was not me.
I am a foreigner,
I just came to see.

Detroit, wake up
from your profound sleep.
Rebuild your empire.
Rebuild it so I can see.

Forget about
black LaKeishas
and your white Portias.
Forget about your yellow Chengs
and your brown Carolas.

Let the golden haze
that rusts on your aura
shine proudly
on your face again.

Let a feeling of goodness
drench the city like a storm.
Let your dreams flourish and endure.

Turn the holy fight into salutation.
Let the happiness return.
Leave your vinegar grief behind.
Let me see, Detroit. Let me see.