poems from quito
(2007)
The lovers los viejos dicen que este vulcán y aquella montaña son enamorados y por su amor producieron un hijo, un vulcanito negro. En la mañana la luz alumbra el cuerpo desnudo y durmiendo de Mama Cotacachi mientras Tayta Imbabura, con su barba de nubes mira todo, mira el cielo cambiando mira la tierra de su cuerpo mezclando con la de su mujer en la valle mira su hijo creciendo, el bélico Yana Urku, lleno de ceniza lleno de fuego. . The Royal Court El mundo es un pobre poema que solo recita mi alma 1. The Princess of the Trash Heap The Princess of the Trash Heap stood primly, back arched paging through a telephone book. Finding something of interest, she placed it gingerly within her large white sack and continued searching. She found ticket stubs and metal scraps, tin cans and bubble gum wrappers, and when every tidbit had been collected from the ground, she looked once over her shoulder, and climbed within the barrel. She emerged with a fist clenched around some treasure, and dusted herself off, tossing her braided head and raising her eyebrows to challenge anyone who may have seen. 2. The Wry Prince Nobody bought their newspaper or caramelos, but this wry prince came, with his sharp eyes and hook nose, and said in their same vendor monotone, My mother is dead My father is sick and cannot work I have three hermanitos I have come all the way from Columbia I want to study Please give. And they gave. He collected their money without a smile and then stood at the front of the bus, staring forward out the window until the next stop. Everyone tells you: buy their wares, don’t indulge begging. But these days, really, people will do anything for a story. 3. The White Prince The White Prince came tapping his sweet voice singing breathmints his blind feet balancing better than ours, as we gripped the rails and stared unabashedly knowing he could not stare back. 4. Tiptoe on the Misty Mountaintops On the overpass a grubby princess grasps the arms of her ragtag prince, throws back her head Wilt thou be gone? Their lark is traffic Their dawn is choked with smog He swings his sack of newspapers over his shoulder I must be gone and live or stay and die. 5. Prince in an Intersection He conducted the traffic like a symphony closing his eyes and gently moving his hands to the pulsing rhythm of the rush hour cars. 6. The Morning Princess Although I have never seen it I am certain that with the first rays of sun she rides down from the mountains with her train of gold-laden vicuñas, yawning gloriously and singing, Salte, dios padre Salte, dios sol Salte, inca dios. And when she arrives in the city she trades her woven plume robe for a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit and her ornate headdress for a grease-stained cap and shines strangers’ shoes all day with her secret smile until the last rays of sun come and she returns to her palace to sleep. . Of Small and Angry Gods This one vomits rivers his bile carving rock making canyons This one screams in a pancreas until the boy’s mouth is bitter and posture stooped This one crouches plum-like and whines until I eat him bruised though he is. . Up on Imbabura when you’re this high all the trees look like screen doors and all the children come out into the streets and stare.
