Retablo of the Black Christ The retablo paintings are dark, but the candles make the dark skin of Jesus glow, his face turned away- a strange sorrow in his long, elegant legs, crossed at the ankles, as if reclining on a couch. A short man stands before him in his clothes decades old- plaid cuffed... Show moreRetablo of the Black Christ The retablo paintings are dark, but the candles make the dark skin of Jesus glow, his face turned away- a strange sorrow in his long, elegant legs, crossed at the ankles, as if reclining on a couch. A short man stands before him in his clothes decades old- plaid cuffed pants, crumpled nylon shirt. He’s got a cowboy hat in his left hand, heavy gym bag over his shoulder. He’s as dark as Jesus, but his black hair has turned almost totally gray. The Church is so empty, I think, the man feels free to talk to Jesus outloud, for that’s exactly what he’s doing: conversing. I can’t understand the words but I know a good gossip when I hear it. He talks passionately - vivaciously - confidentially - all the modulations of conversation and when he turns and passes by me, he smiles — his wrinkles, a map of faith. Note: This beautiful figure is found at a side altar at the Church of St. Francis, La Antigua, Guatemala. After I wrote this poem, I read that this figure of Jesus is made of papier maché, not wood, and that the insides are sacred Mayan texts, used by the conquerors to make the paper mache. In this way the figure retains the power of the civilization that existed before the Spanish colonization. ROSEANN LLOYD MURPHY SQUARE 15 Show less
as if there is someone to hear us. Myestomach growls, gurgles, reminds me I haven’t eaten all day and usually drink sugar—free pop. Is it the sweetness of the soda making me shake, the damp night air that makes me tremble? Why do smoke, Cigarettes, damp wood and body odor suddenly smell like... Show moreas if there is someone to hear us. Myestomach growls, gurgles, reminds me I haven’t eaten all day and usually drink sugar—free pop. Is it the sweetness of the soda making me shake, the damp night air that makes me tremble? Why do smoke, Cigarettes, damp wood and body odor suddenly smell like perfume to me? His mouth tastes like Dr. Pepper and tobacco. MARGARET ANDERSON MURPHY SQUARE 17 Show less
Fourth of July, Way After Dark We sit by a roaring fire. I’m not sure what combustibles my partner threw in but it spits multicolored flames high in the night sky better than fireworks, shapes the form of our emotions. Out here in the country the humid air has condensed into thick mist. It hangs... Show moreFourth of July, Way After Dark We sit by a roaring fire. I’m not sure what combustibles my partner threw in but it spits multicolored flames high in the night sky better than fireworks, shapes the form of our emotions. Out here in the country the humid air has condensed into thick mist. It hangs heavily over the backyard, mixes with the smoke billowing from our conflagration. Crushed grass scent rises up from beneath me. My back and knees ache from hunkering down on the ground, heavy dew drenches and chills my sandal-clad feet. But the fire warms my skin glowing in the metallic maroon of Dr. Pepper cans, illuminating his ash—smudged face, reflected in his brown eyes. He leans forward to light my cigarette, arm to arm our hands touch, sheltering the flame. His skin is warm. Cars pass, headlights bounce off the thick air and disappear. A dog bays across the road resonance lost in the mist. The fog shuts us in, shutting out the world. We speak, we sing, in hushed tones 16 MURPHY SQUARE Show less