Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Dying Tobacco Plants of Chicoana

That afternoon in Marzo I crept over the barbed wire
into your family reunion,
courted your veins.
Raindrops fell sleepily to its withering brother leaves below,
hand-me-downs knitted by the sky.
The impact sounded like footsteps: I waited paitently
under the heavy gray sky,
my sneakers being devoured into the mud,
mosquitos rain-dancing through my bloodstream.
How does it feel
when the hummingbirds stumble through the graveyard of your flowers,
trying to suck nectar from your empty pink carriages?
Do you mistake their slender beaks for those of vultures?
The gentle wind for bandits of your seeds?
For every plot of land, there are tongues to lick it clean.

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