When My Father Passed Away
This theater is a slaughterhouse
where filaments of grief
are too shifty to cut,
amusing guests who come
along with gestures
broadly understanding
what brought them in,
inscribing very clearly
associations overhanging
with the deceased.
The bereaved insists on
what needs to be preserved
along fertility lines, which
unkind behavior should
be dismembered.
Here, the propensity
to dissolve a fear
needs to be cleared up.
Relatives are pleased
when a family is associated
with powerful mourners
who leave their traces behind
while those who achieve less
endeavor to fill in lapses
upon this confabulation.
Each capture is overwhelmingly
a litany of performers,
feats and states of play.
At curtain call, the incense
glitters with sugar, salt, rice,
onions, garlic sending off
my father, our most secret
thoughts slumping before
his audience of separations.
Descent
From the top, we illuminate
gestures from a landscape
colonials often describe
as wayward and primitive.
We unveil the colors of birds
and flowers reproducing
movements from romances
and histories to reclaim
previously majestic
grace and fluorescence.
Parasols over brimming
patterns on our skin
receive spectators
with drums, prompting
a memory of cultures
slaughtered, amorphously
now, covering up a deflection.
We break away from
precedents by uttering
improvisations denoting
eyes and noses
of dismembered figures,
a persistence, ink tones
shining through speed,
modulations strumming
along, framing like scrolls.
At the reception line, we
turn out to be statuesque,
triumphantly convinced
that we convey translucence
like pieces of calligraphy
just as we secretly aspire
to leap out with more potency,
satin and spiderlike
bursting out of this
striptease movement.
Only the finest witchery takes
place in transmissible descent.
