Scratching their poems on styrofoam cups, The orange jumpsuits pass them along, Under the scorched-out Cuban sun, through bars, Telling themselves—and reminding the world— They are men, and this Inquisition Also must pass, this auto da fe, Flushed down history’s manhole, Must bring shame in the Later Years When men and women re-tell the past— La Conquista, the Crusades, the Slaughter Of the Innocents—all the lost causes.
There in the cups, drops of Christ’s blood Appear out of nowhere, mingle with the tears Of God, of Mohammed—the shepherd boys Tending their flocks, dreaming under white-hot stars. What distant fires illuminate their lives
On what worlds reaching beyond this hothouse?
Here is grief and love and hatred mixed In bitter cups to be drunk at once Tossing the head back carelessly; here is The taste of this world—what we have become. Does it go down easy, cause revulsion, Trip-wire the memory? Does anything Ever come to anything more than a dream Of home, struggle, certainties of Truth, A mother’s, father’s, lover’s, friend’s or child’s embrace?
Gary Corseri has posted/published work at Cyrano’sJournalOnline, ThomasPaine’sCorner, DissidentVoice, CounterPunch, CommonDreams, The New York Times, Village Voice, The Digest and over 200 other venues worldwide. He can be reached at [email protected].
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