13 Abril: A daylit meteor

Days & Days

13 Abril 

The boy in the belltower, 
six stories above us, he wraps 
his arm around the column, checks 
his phone, looks out, looks over.
Beautiful boy. 16, 17. His hand 
on the bell, the bell in the tower, 
two-hundred-and-sixty years old 
somehow, the tower, the bell. 
What does it feel like 
to be a bird, a boy, a cloud, the air,
this evening, its light, he becomes 
them, unafraid. We tilt back 
just to see the breeze he is, 
his idle way. That one April 
when you feel yourself to be 
a daylit meteor, as you are.
Beneath him, the men have whipped, 
been whipped, all along the main street,
did they do this in the Middle Ages,
while people make out, eat elote, 
pray, the procession of Marías,
cradling the crucified, on the beds 
of shiny canary yellow or green 
vintage Ford F-350s, the soldiers, 
the angelitos, the drummers in white, 
the small copper man with his flute, 
its fearful tune, they’ve all arrived, 
palms woven, palms high. Barefoot, 
the prisoners. In sandals, the guards. 
To run with them, Franny wants 
to stay with them. My eyes are 
telling me the story, she says. I wish 
I was an angel. I wish you’d signed me up 
to be an angel. In my own country, 
some people will get rich 
off the 1798 Alien Enemies Act, 
now back, last used for “internment camps,” 
the “state secrets privilege,” stealing 
fathers, boyfriends, sons, daughters,
authors of op-eds, students, teachers,
daylit meteors, all, once, breezes, 
beautiful, from the arms of their 
wives, disabled sons, from their morning 
coffee, their streets, look see
that tattoo it’s proof (of Real Madrid, 
Mom & Dad, the Tres Reyes), they just
snatch them, take them, chain them, 
shave them, starve them, beat them, 
bow them down. Some have been sent to 
hell which, as it turns out, is a real place, 
airless there, why do we keep making hell 
when we could not make hell, make not
hell, now hell’s a prison, in El Salvador,
and my country is paying six million 
dollars for it all the hits are weird 
this Semana Santa, every song’s 
title, whether Shaboozey, 
Bruno Mars, or Chappell Roan: 
“For Release The Supreme Court Voted 9-0”
“After Such Knowledge What Forgiveness” 
“Bring Kilmar Ábrego Garcia Home”

Sketch that I made of Templo de San Roque.

P.S. Thanks so to everyone who’s read this new essay, in Image, and passed it along.