With the Crickets at Night
I have stood
empty-handed,
liberated,
one is company,
and even a
shadow' is too much.
I am with
the crickets at
night, breathing
in the dark watching
nothing, hearing
every single sound
those critters
make: a language
I don't understand,
but enjoy a great
deal. It makes me
feel I'm not alone.
The Heart's Percentages
I can't figure out what percentage
of my heart was left behind
in the old country. I wonder if
it was the warm and innocent
part of my heart that stayed
in the town of Zacatepec.
The jungle was the nickname
given to the town by the other
soccer teams that came to play.
They were usually eviscerated
by the heat and by the hometown team,
which was accustomed to the weather
conditions. I hardly ever wore
shoes, always in sandals, and
many times without a shirt.
It has been more than thirty years
since I made my way back.
I feel my heart a little bit harder,
uncertain of what I would find if I
returned. both of my grandparents
died. They were the ones who
raised me when I was a young boy
there, from age two to age seven.
I wonder if my heart would be full
again once I stepped into that small
town, or would my heart break, along
with any percentage of warmth or
innocence still contained in my heart.
This Quiet Night
Pensive on this quiet night.
I sit in a corner of a room.
The city no longer alive.
The air whispers faintly.
It is a strange air, like if it
wants to tell me things.
It is circling unlike a vulture.
The house wants some
conversation or a song
to fill its spaces. The night
remains quiet. I discover
a certain jealousy.
I love how quiet and still it is.
I offer the house the air
and its whispers. But
the house is bitter,
like if it wants a party.
It remains sullen and cold.
The quiet night soothes me.
It seems the house feels
more alone than me.
I knock on the wall to
acknowledge its needs
and then I blast the stereo.
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