Academic journal article The Hudson Review

Guavas

Academic journal article The Hudson Review

Guavas

Article excerpt

It's the guavas. Hanging up there,

warm, earthy, the rouse of remembered passion.

Watching them, my mind doesn't bend

to deny I'm not able to feel anything,

as I begin to hear again the weapons

that waken death in the world. Today,

if I'm not running away from lifeless life,

I try to enter a city where people

made me see myself as a nightmare

which didn't approve of sanctions and fear.

Elsewhere, men plunder and kill. Someone

speaks of a lonely village wife who wanders

from one night of rape to another, wanting

only to survive in her children.

I breathe deeply of this air of habit,

the air of guavas whose green only moves

from the sensuousness of a cage to cage.

Unlike them I wish I wouldn't have to fight,

feel the wild throb of forgotten lust,

rearrange those dead of mine who had killed

themselves or died of penury or heart attacks

until they awakened again, blessed,

and not feel the spasms of fear I express. …

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