THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN BY BIENVENIDO N. SANTOS.
The gods we worship live next door. They’re brown
and how easily they catch cold sneezing
too late into their sleeves and brandishing
their arms in air. Fear grips us when they frown
as they walk past our grim deformities
dragging with them the secret scent of love
bought by the ounce from gilded shops above
the rotunda of the bright cities.
In the cold months of fog and heavy rains
our gods die one by one and caskets golden
are borne on the hard pavements at even
down roads named after them, across the plains
where all gods go. Oh, we outlive them all,
but there are junior gods fast growing tall.
No comments:
Post a Comment