In the moonlight
in the iron-fenced courtyard
six men stand
like scattered statues:
the moon bathes them blue
in funereal mists.
Silently they face each direction
as if alone.
Six steles waiting,
each a watchful epitaph
waiting.
Perhaps the police will come:
these monuments slide
soundless into shadows.
Perhaps I will come,
dragging the anchor of my pain:
then one of the statues
will move,
his dead eyes approaching me
at the edge of my prison’s bars.
Only in that yard
is my freedom found.
Here, just beyond,
hovering
in rose-tipped agony,
damp bills clutched
in trembling claw.
Between the bars I thrust it now.
"Que quieres?"
"Una pieza de chiva – veinte."
Un veloz cambio
y las sombras indigas
me consumen.
~ for John Bocanegra
© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.
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