Tuesday, July 11, 2006


this is an audio post - click to play


At the edge of a bed
near the infection of light,
Lazaro opens his velcro wallet
and plucks the dirty carcass
of a hummingbird inside.
The muted feathers, the stiffened cartilage
nestled between a bank receipt
and George Washington’s
crisp grimace.
If every story has a beginning
this one starts in a shadow
-scarred room when the ghost
of a grandmother enters
like smoke, like bloody gauze.
Her eyes are stone, her hair
the stench of packed dirt.
In the air, her presence
is like a terrible thought.
Tremors rattle his body.
Turns walls into a dopey
mythic haze.
He places the crusted bird
on the nightstand,
near a syringe.
A bird once a symbol of
an Aztec God, once a gift
meant to be carried
in a left pocket.
Love and Prosperity.
A reminder that she
is in between them.

Published in Conte 2006 ©

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