—after Octavio Paz


            Out of the adobe
            came a dark figure
            singing of the morning.
            It was I in another
            time where I built
            the walls to stay,
            but they fell into
            the earthquake.

            Out of the passion
            of the feet and hands,
            I explored the suspect,
            but he died of thirst.
            I remained senseless
            and walked under
            the arches, waited
            for hands to mark
            the opening in the earth,

            my actions forgiven
            when I found
            no escape,
            only the smell.
            of goat meat
            frying in the dark
            and open land.

            Out of the whispers
            crawled a thing
            searching for water.
            It was not I,
            but the animal
            of no shape that
            swallowed my sins

            and spit them back,
            the glue holding
            the house up
            for 500 years,
            the creature drinking
            from the fountain,
            screaming to be heard.

            Out of those cries
            came a fear that
            took families away,
            replaced the years with
            rain and moratoriums,
            loves and magnitudes
            fit for a wiser
            and negotiating man.

            When I stood alone,
            the shell of the house
            flowered into a body
            I gave up on
            centuries ago,
            its beautiful hair
            longer than the river
            threatening my kingdom
            with its human gaze.

            Out of that look,
            months without
            a soul as the walls
            of mud slapped a limit
            on where I could live,
            what I could see and say,
            how often I emerged
            from the black corner
            where the altar was
            erected centuries ago,
            the spot where my knees
            fall without prayer or
            an answer that comes
            from me.

Copyright © Ray Gonzalez, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.