The last dance on Bayita Lane
            was like the fading night
            blooming cerus' memory, like
            the hothouse uprooted, replaced
            by cheap cane furniture
            bent by dumb hands. You see
            I had to steal something
            of that flower to locate
            my stupid fate--there was Tom
            who ate only greenleaf salad
            because of the Haldol he was taking.
            And whether you remember me or not
            sitting with a teak bowl
            of upturned ashes on my head,
            there was brood in my eyes then
            and like a spider I made something else
            of your habits, your gestures,
            the small white hands tearing
            bits of paper where ever we went--
            leaving trails from napkins, sugar
            packets, any marker to lead you back
            beyond the nervousness of your present task.

        

Copyright © Albino Carrillo, 2004. All Rights Reserved.