When they heard
him, they
heard
the whips over
his ancestors
as
they were forced
out from
India.
They heard a
man thrown
into
jail for stealing
a small
bunch
of grapes, then
the ugly
grunts
of his starving
wife and
children.
When they heard
him, “they
heard
a shivering woman
with no
defense
as the solders
came to
do
what they did
with her
and
her still too-young
daughters.” They
heard
the stars fall
into bleak
silence.
When they heard
him, they
heard
his cante come
from him
like
a rusty nail
being pulled
from
an old board.
La voz
afilla—
sandpaper voice. Good
Gitano voice:
Muy
rajo, very rough.
Do you
know
the worst thing
one can
say
about someone in
flamenco? No
me
dice nada. He
didn’t say
anything
to me. He
didn’t speak
something
I realized I
feared but
needed
to hear. Ay!
All these
stanzas
are rough! Or
worse, too
gentle.
They fumble. Earnest
as cows
and
they fumble. Do
you know
what
would be the
worst thing
said
about my poetry?
I created
nothing
that moved you.
Made you
cry
as if pain
was the
only
proof possible for
being alive.
So
who among you
listening will
be
the wild dog
I am
calling?
Show me your
snarl. Reveal
your
fangs. How can
I sing
blood
if I don’t
bleed? Show
me
yourself as the
one for
whom
I will rip
my own
skin.
Show yourself before
you bore
me
with your patient
stalking. Show
yourself
darkened further by
my orders.
My
people trained me.
There is
no
shame in begging
for what
will
part my lips—
what will
trade
caresses with my
tongue—what
will
battle my teeth
and make
me
sweat. My people
trained me.
I
learned knives are
sharp by
being
cut. I learned
fires are
hot
by being burned.
I learned
to
stamp my heels
to sound
like
a machine-gun blast
because…because…
Show
yourself—I have
a song
to
turn you into
ice and
then
shatter you. Show
yourself—do
you
think I’m begging
for a
crust
of bread already
half-eaten by
cockroaches?!
