Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

He’s NOT my President I eat breakfast, think of the mother of Mondays in front of a broken well, clean dry leaves  off a plank  on top of the bed calm as the man who washes gold dust  in the privacy of his house. The wind reaches into the pockets of night, sails through plazas I can't recognize, deserted avenues I've never seen, stores where promises are paid with promises. It rests in the fury of keys, draws two lines of fire on the counter of a bar near my house, builds nationalist utopias & banishes women in burkas, in front of the white house by the lake. My job is my father's old job. I care for the salt, measure the crystals, frighten away white precipice birds.

A Thousand Darknesses In memory of Holocaust Victims and Celan We went to Mirabeau Bridge and paid your promise. The hours passed on the Seine, our lives increasingly smaller  grew confident a suicide chose  the side of the Tower where nothing ends up falling. We threw our coins in the water.

Precipice birds arrived with the sea's pendulum engraved on the feathers covering their heads. Reptiles followed their flight  from below  with deadly splendor. The birds delayed the snow to visit my house and gifted me the crumbs of a closed political paradise whitewashed with decrepit lies.