Rain and Toothless Angels to be published in "Ink In Thirds"

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.