Georges Rousse, Embrasure II, 1987, cibachrome mounted on aluminum, 62 × 48½ inches. Courtesy Farideh Cadot Gallery.
This afternoon a child, not even two years old,
He’s got curls like ripples on a lake.
A pudgy little boy
with huge eyes
like a stray lamb.
He only knows four words: Mommie,
Pipanny, for Granny, and Cuba.
When he’s upset he yells papo! to protest
or to show he’s going to cry.
His name is Nestor
but at home we call our little piece of people
If it’s the police who find him
and we hope with all our hearts it won’t be
please please don’t let them hurt him.
This little boy is wearing a sailor suit
and carrying a music box.
If he does not come back, what man what woman what creature
in this house
will ever again be able, no matter how they try,
to lift their fallen wings?
(Answer to Rafael Heliodoro Valle)
The history of Honduras could be written on a rifle,
on a gunshot, or rather,
inside a drop of blood.
Stroessner Or The Mask
Alfredo Stroessner, loneliest policeman in the world,
stands, just look at him,
arms crossed, lazy as a leech,
systematically surveying his private galaxy (Paraguay),
thinking in the shrinking time-space left to him
about that possibility without adjectives growing ever more
that his mother and mentor Death will, any night now,
place between his sheets
unbeknownst to him
From that day on
the God of Hell will know his name perfectly
and neither the exquisite body of the most beautiful and
dangerous of his homosexuals
nor the collection of masks that made him famous
will have any meaning
and by that time even that magical mask elaborated with
such loving care
(a most secret gift of the Pentagon)
will have lost the splendor of the first degree of beauty
that had the power to instantly transform him
into a loving father who would cheerfully give you
the last rags off his back.
The Brutal Lovers
To Filánder Diaz Chavez, Juan Antonio Medina Duron, and Carlos Saúl Toro
They, the aliens,
arrived from other worlds to this land that saw our birth.
We are the light, they said, not wasting words.
Multiplying deaths by treacheries
they came to call us friends,
to eat up everything and stay here in this land
that saw our birth, they, the linear and metallic ones,
the brazen lovers of
Death to Death.