The Puerto Rican Literature Project

Simply place a whisper 

in the exact part of the heart 

for it to germinate, 

or become a bullet, 

an almond, 

and one dies enough, 

a little each day, 

or one is vaccinated 

with wrath. 

***********************************************************************************

These days, I will work on peace 

without merely being the sum of the man I have been. 

Amid a hem of rags, 

I will scatter the remnants of possibility 

Today, I will work on the pausing of the heel

knocking on wood in some narrow hallway. 

I like thinking there is rhythm where I step. 

Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, 

I will stretch my arms toward an empty sky 

and I will see myself in the watercolors of nothingness. 

My head is a nest of birds, drunken with bread. 

The sky in my hair will open the way to restfulness, 

to what is diluted in a swarm of feathers. 

The day after tomorrow the sand will return, 

and it will be hurricane and it will be ash, 

and in hemorrhaging sneeze 

I will fill myself with me. 

Then, I will hold the broom once more, 

And return any given day similar to Monday. 

I will put my house in order

as many times as is necessary.