Frost at Christ Church Meadow
The cow pasture flooded and froze.
Over its milk glass rink, two crows
drift to a pine,
catch like origami paper. Leafless
oak veins steam: auras lift
Oarsman, Rio de la Plata
There’s nothing new under the Golden Star. If you did not exist
in my space/time coordinates, I would have invented you, spirited
from that Sunday afternoon in the Zócalo when you sang
your poems and I caught you afterwards at the lip of the stage
My son’s hands hid his face,
and his narrow shoulders shook
with sobbing. He had no metaphysics
yet, so the pastor’s voice bleated
senselessly over the grave
of his grandmother
To Arrive Here
All spring, I fed myself double doses
of the prescription, half-doses of
antihistamines. Cut my fingernails into
short squares like I saw on the hands
of my sister’s newborn child.
A Cure for the Common Cold
Honey pours from my eyes
as the mustard dries under
the bandaid, poultice yellow —
a flake on skin. I think about
the time I ate the lemon, whole,
rind and pith, spitting the seeds
into a cup because
Patricia told me to.
Two Poems by Mateo Lara
they say—wetback they say—beaner they say—cockroach
or you open mouth for feeding & tears fall under calloused tongue.
The Grid (Part 1)
O you signals spinning round the
world with our secrets in tow,
what lies below, what pleasures
go, what torn bits show?
A Quarrel with the Village of My Birth
birthday song is martial. Even
her avenues are lined with
pikes. Even her galleries
crowded on Sunday, her parks
larded with pigeons and crumbs.