◊◊
Duende:…[T]he “bitter root” of human existence, what Lorca referred to as “the pain that has no explanation” … and the source of much great art.—Christopher Maurer
◊
After the rain, the trees are weeping,
tears glistening in the setting sun.
And suddenly
◊
I feel the fierce force flowing through my veins
along with the red cells and white cells and platelets,
to and from the heart (the center of grief, I heard somewhere).
◊
I wail once more my family’s demise:
my father’s frightened eyes, my mother’s waxy hands,
my daughter’s last labored breaths.
´◊
I recoil as if for the first time at
old failures, sins, embarrassments, what-ifs
that float before me like dead fish.
◊
I watch my friends diminish—
cancer, Parkinson’s, heart problems, Alzheimer’s—
I shave an old man’s face.
◊
This week, I’ll pray, write a poem, plant flowers in the family cemetery, meet friends,
take grandchildren for ice cream, work in my garden, make love to my wife,
tenacity momentarily victorious.
◊
Still, coursing through my triumphs like a deep and dark river,
demolishing and nourishing as it surges to the sea,
Duende.
◊◊
