Rain and Toothless Angels - to be Published in "Ink In Thirds"
In my city, it always rains. Water
falls with an intensity that only belongs
to fables or dreams. Serious, insistent, almost
solid, a cloth made by hands without eyes. It rains
on currency circulating in shopping malls,
on every ticket drenched in sweat and bile.
It rains in courts, archives, between sentences, minutes,
articles, amendments. It rains as if someone
were trying to apologize, and their voice crumbles
into the drops. In the street, toothless angels slip while begging
door to door. In cemeteries, the dead spend
the eternity we gave them fixing drainpipes.
Clouds do not pray for the salvation
of nobody: they’ve been baptized by places
of happiness. It rains: a clumsy gesture covers buildings,
moistens their foreheads, windows are silent. The memory
of my city is a puddle that wets legs,
softening my paper bones. Memories, like dull-skinned fish,
swim around, infect bystanders with insomnia.
Beetles roll awkwardly on sidewalks, buzzards watch
traffic in their free hours. Spiders weave the scaffolds
on which we walk. Gray scales grow on my front walls.
It rains on the history of the city, smudged and dispersed,
impossible to gather. Rains on the heads of the saints
that spit upward, armed with miracles of lead and beer.
It rains under the roof of the presidential palace: moss,
green as a caress, grows on the busts of heroes, on their eyelids
tired of so much corruption.