juj e lepe

White Stone Path 

after Cesar Vallejo

I caravanned through the Andes 

on a bleak day like today —

but what does it matter?  

The condor flew so high 

I could hardly marvel at her wingspan. 

On earth, how death crept 

in its usual crevices: in the neon moss 

inching along the white stone path

at every step, the drying earthworms surrendering

again and again, to life-giving rains. 

They could never know the joys of flight, 

the impossible green of the valley — 

they know fledglings who struggle through mud

they know unanswered cries, 

draped shadows cast down from above.

Juventud

A quiet night, a barren sky, 

the lemon slice 

of a moon smiles down at me. 

I watch her rise from behind 

open blinds, my legs folded

in attendance. 

Somewhere below, 

along the lawn’s edge

the poppies are sleeping.