6
-7
-8
-9
-10
-11
-12
New Students, Old Teacherfor the American poets,on the occasion of their readings We're the only people left in the world. We lift our faces to pray, to utter our final words. Three-eyed poems fly across the home of darkness. We're prisoners, we're free; We're recent corpses, we're living bodies Who measure our breaths carefully: We've hidden our lungs in smokey kitchens, We've lost them in rotting jungle leaves. We're the only people left in the world. We bathe in muddy marshes of fear and pride Where bubbles open their mouths to jeer us. We dry our waterless faces before a fire of howling blood While one-winged bats speak many languages, Flying about in eye-glasses, in search Of the new breasts of our musty women. Our noses chime, like terrified bells. Our hearts dig deep holes; they sniff graves. Our half-deaf ears fall like autumn leaves And new ears sprout in the spaces between our fingers. We're the only people left in the world. A waterless river flows over our heads, Where fish without fins or gills find their way to class And an old teacher breaks cloud after cloud of smoke With his winter coughs. He plucks Off a ringless finger to write on the blackboard And makes a comma that looks like a slanting eye. Then he sits down and sews his pants, Waiting for new students to come, their books filled with zeroes. |
Return --
Previous --
Next
Issue #21, July, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.