el favela

you'd think i'd be immune to the shanty towns
lack of hygiene, dirty water carried on 
head or hip or maybe if lucky with a stick,
 two on a pole.  but the age of cholera begins
on a different continent and the bugs,
while similar in symptom, are as different
as koala and polar bears, so we die, nestfuls
of us, the living can't bury us fast enough
all the rains, all the rainy graves
 of water., let us drink, let us baptise
in this holiest of holes and complete
the becoming of the circle.





*






it's been quieter now we're old.
you tried to tell me how it is,
the fading, the forgetting. i'm glad
so many years are gone but why
is my uncle still pulling up my dress
why do i still pretend to sleep why
do i see the skeleton head of shock
theatre and mom ever since
she saw that hitchcock movie psycho
 scared to take a shower
even though she had a nice tile one
with a sliding glass door in the master
i am still walking in on her as she bathes
water  on skin, curled
upon herself not exactly hiding
breasts but not forthcooming saying
oops excuse me, i left my brush
then grabbing it and leaving like most
of the good times that i had with you
or anyone else because only pain
sticks by us, even when all else has passed.







































*







la favella is in my heart
she sings to me with a thousand
coughs in the wee morning
hours her perfume like the water
treatment plant, her hair tangled
power lines i grasp as we journey
the long ride in the back of the van
fueled by rumours and dreams.
we're coming to america haunted
by what it used to be. cardboard
signs become roofs and beds
which cannot keep us dry.

on the tv a man resembling my uncle says this land is not for us, says they are the elite, says go home, go home. but this is my home. this tiny scrap of wood and plaster pinned with electricity is where i live. we use memories to fuel the fire, but even the hard ones burn too fast in the long long night.