Bloodstones
When do we stop searching
for a father and mother,
craving memories of a sweet home?
What a pity to grow without.
You may say sad if they die; within
reach yet not present a tragedy.
I never knew my father; my mother
would say he was a drunk who left
right before I was born. She left
one very cold winter, mind halved.
Today her body died, as I kept away.
I hear her voice: ¡me rechazó a mi!
No. No tears. They will keep
inside me as I wait, patiently,
for a long embrace from Karma.
A Boy’s Reflection in a Hobby Shop Window
Is this really my voice?
I see my mouth moving
stringing vowels consonants
words into black cast-iron
Lionel train going round
and round through fuzzy
green papier-mâché mountain
through Main Street USA
past itty-bitty hand-painted
people standing at a bus stop
a red light a railroad station
waving I’ll be damned if not
smiling! Train going round
and round again not ending
behind Hobby Shop window
until closing time lights out…
who I am left in darkness.
Until next time,
keep writing.
Peace,
Andrés Castro