the city shuts its graffitied eyelids with a shudder, and sleeps the fitful sleep of one who is watched
this near the sun, there are no blinds thick enough, no curtains dark enough, to block the morning light

but for now, the streetlights that do work
illuminate men wearing bags, carrying bags, untieing and hoisting multitudes of plastic bags
their cats sit ladylike awaiting a turn at the heap

shadows under bridges hint of human forms
sidewalks trampled during the day are off limits
country people lurking in the dark
in a city they where they cannot sleep

I can't sleep either
you won't do what I want you to do
and I won't want what you want me to

Andean city, city 8,000 feet closer to the stars
facades only a mother could love
where the ironwork is delicate like her idolized hands
spared by the hands of a thousand wanderers
settling briefly to clean your sleepy homes
homes made by other women, homes not their own

how did your grandparents engage the world? was it art, poetry, wood? was it fishing in waters long since dried up? did they rock silently back and forth or tilt full blown, loud, brash? were they fixers, of men, of faucets? did they sweep stoops or just sit on them to watch sunsets peeking past crumbling midrise apartments? were they volunteers or conscripts? did they cook ambitious and disatrous meals with multiple courses, then leaves the dishes for the morning, or did they keep a maid to make them thick sandwiches on crusty bread? how did they address one another, do you know?

or is it lost, dust under the bed you once jumped on
dust in the basements where you were sent to play,
dust on the piano keys,
dust on your grandfather's hand when he reached for a hammer, said here
this is how you hold it
use its weight
do not test your strength on the wood
but use the nail to write your intention deep
dust gathered slow and unwilling
from the dirt waiting to be tossed
too late, too late
into the grave earth

National Envy

Rose thorns grown shallow in clumped dirt
bleeding hands full of pluck
greedy hands taking ten times what ours carry

at the national university
guerrilla graffiti adorns white slabs that only shelter
and Che gloats over us all

(when introduced, I say, I’m an imperialist yanqui – and where are you from?
oh, they say, disappointed, you’re not French.)

it’s dusk again
windows thrust open to greet the night blooms
sensual caballo blossoms open to pique the coming gloom
and national envy seeps in

No one is speaking my language
I’m talking talking talking to myself
No one is speaking my language
I listen but no words come out

No one is speaking my language
My language of stars and pink skies and blue nights
There’s a knock and I answer but wordless we just stare
The door closes, a point, a shard of colored glass
Because no one is speaking my language
And no one can

I could sit at this window forever
In my foreign interior land
In this country not so different from my own
My feelings just the same
My language just the same
Only different music pulses
Only different sizes to try on
The sounds are different but with the same no meaning days

No one here speaks my language
is better than
No one understands me
even though
we speak the same language

Here I can feel melancholy and blame it on the sky
Here I am the same
It’s only outside that’s constant change