Chaparrón De Lágrimas

Caitríona Reed  

The tops of the trees

just coming into foliage

in the still-cool evening

of California April

Chaparro. Engelman. Coastal Live.

Chaparrón. Downpour. Sycamore.

Oak. The green grass so green

in the shade of the foliage. Any more of this

and the heart could not bear it.

The Sun shines his singular light

on the winding blinded road. I am

going west. The persistent ghosts

who lean further into this country

than we do ourselves.

The redemptive, oh how I wish redemptive, ghosts

of Chile, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Navajo pueblos, Colorado canyons. . .

(name everywhere and you will have it)

I am working my way home

I have a job in your warehouse of tears

I carry both the bitterness and the lightness of love

and others’ unending memories that I never

managed very successfully until now.

It’s weight is pushing me

how is it that the very work of holding it feeds me?

I came to visit and I am pulled, blind;

pulled into this matrix. I am working my way

home. I have a job.

I speak your language with hesitation.

I carry things about

in your warehouse of tears.

© Caitríona Reed May, 2001

 

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