On the Day of the Dead

On the Day of the Dead

On the day of the dead, Pablo put on his pants

one mummified foot at a time. It wasn't

his fault, rain was the true culprit. Clouds

followed his feet for years, poured whenever

he tried to cut bread in the City of Glass.

His soles cracked, sprouting roots.

Julia entertained on her balcony,

levitating intimate secrets. People on 42nd Street

attributed her faculties to a Santero visiting

her family on the day she was born.

She stood tall and elegant like the mountains

to the south of Black Island, Pablo's home.

Her face had traces of unforgettable pain.

They married. Julia, carried down the aisle

by two old lovers, found the last bottle of rum

hidden in the trash before the wedding.

She bled life into a gutter, no one recited her verses.

No one knew she was Ambassador to the Island of Poetry.

Pablo was one mummified foot at a time

closer to banging pots and starvation. Medicine denied,

orders from the dictator.

They are gone but I keep their marriage vows

to read out loud on the day of the dead.