Poetry

Lucas

by

Sergio Ortiz

We met one last time
before his corpse was washed.

I couldn’t get passed
the stench of medicine,
or the thin skin and bones

talking from the wheelchair.
The virus had finally stalked
every part of his body.

He said: Come, give me a hug.
I held on to a chair fearing I’d pass out
from the discovery, but I couldn’t
betray his hope in an embrace.

Lucas? Lucas…

I knew he found substance
in the gathering of friends

because I am acquainted with my sins,
and all the ways that I have killed.

Dead Willow

by

Sergio Ortiz

The only place left to wait
is by the dead willow,
near the lilies’ delicate scent.

What can one expect from pain?
We go our separate ways,
think of the beauty of the way,

the goodness of the bread.
Racemes of sad eyes hanging in the meadow
tire. Weary feet, undefined
wanderings of a bite, pulse
like the pupils of a hundred virgins.

“ESTRAGON: This is how it is. The bough . . . the bough . . .
VLADIMIR: You're my only hope.
ESTRAGON: Gogo light—bough not break —Gogo dead.
Didi heavy—bough break—Didi alone.”

There is a straw mattress full of bedbugs
Under the tree and the tears of every whore
in the city as open as a red hibiscus.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Waiting for Godot, Act 1, by Samuel Beckett