Read Bird Eating Bird for Free Online Page B

rastros en su lengua y sus labios.
     
    Una pulpa de estrellas por el colador del cielo grueso y negro.
     
    La gente que vive dentro del pueblo dice la nombre, << Lincoln-coma-Nebraska >>.
     
    El pájaro que canta en el árbol se vuela al cantar el papagayo.
     
    En una noche sin estrellas, manejamos sin tracción contra el terreno de cielo liso.
     
    ¡O ruedas que giran! Nadie muere del despecho demasiado rápido.
     
    Sólo ecos de sudor y de ella nada.

SPEAKING SPANISH IS LIKE
    A bird in a tree sings to a parrot in a cage, next door.
     
    As the needle skids it plays the grooves carved in the record vinyl.
     
    In front of the butcher shop a man, the name of a woman tattooed on his chest.
     
    The letters on his skin go green from too many years.
     
    CHRISTINA. Who is this woman on the skin?
     
    On the edge of town, green gusts escape the aging smoke stacks.
     
    The smell of her in a pillowcase delays her leaving.
     
    A green mouth, the taste of rastro * on her tongue and lips.
     
    A pulp of stars through the sieve of Nebraska’s thick, black sky.
     
    People inside this town call it, “Lincoln-comma-Nebraska.”
     
    The bird in the tree takes flight when the parrot joins in.
     
    On a night without stars, we drive, no traction to the sky’s smooth terrain.
     
    O spinning wheels! No one dies from a broken heart too quickly.
     
    Only echoes of sweat and the rest of her gone.

IN MEXICO CITY
    City of misses.
    City of echoes.
    City of transformer explosions in the distance.
    City of long plastic pipe over workmen shoulder blades,
    that criss-cross the sky like a skeleton.
    City of want to edifice itself. City of look upwards.
    City of rivulet. City of rubble. City of particle, granule, and grain.
    City of Oriental flower motifs transposed onto huipiles,
    that waitresses wear at the Sanborn’s café.
    City slowly paving the sky with crumb and tinge and trace.
    City of permeate. City of discern.
    City of ascending concrete columns.
    And of the dangling tailpipe. City you wade through curls of exhaust.
    Of pilgrims hauled on the flatbed of trucks, weighed down
    by guilt and shame and forgive and humble and mercy and apology.
    City of concrete-colored air and concrete-colored breath,
    where cheap tires leave tar varnish on the street,
    of concrete hearts—yours so solidly not in-love with me.
    City of faces on a metro.
    City of smog. City of frown and accelerated aging.
    City of train tires whistling over train tracks.
    City where your silence is roomy as a train car.
    City of muffle, of transfer, of big readers, of stare.
    City where I’m too tall to be Mexican, I’m too red to be Indian.
    Where my traits escape powers of discernment.
    City of wrestle past bodies pressed close as you exit.
    City of excuse me, of permit me, of pardon.
    City of the averted gaze, where with a direct gaze you say, I want you.
    City of no water, no light, no gas.
    City of furnaces and lost eyelashes.
    City so high up even passion lacks heat.
    Where breath lacks earthen, human smell, the smell of shedding.
    City of perpetually watched pots and instant coffee.
    City where I should have asked for love like rent, up front.
    City where water crowns from stolen faucet heads.
    Of unmelted sugar at the bottom of glasses.
    Where lukewarm juice drowns complaints at the lunchería.
    Where bartenders inquire on the roots of your tongue.
    Repeat after me, ‘Pulque, pulga, pulmón,’ he says.
    City of spirits fermented with spit, where you Just swallow. Don’t taste it.
    City of gas bells, church bells, trash bells, sandía , and camote .
    City where a Rottweiler barks on a rooftop and mariachis trumpet in the plaza.
    City of the silicon earplugs.
    Of club girls and DJs leaving for Germany.
    Of Yaneth’s mad crushes on Germans.
    Of blow and overflowing sinks.
    City of laptops adrift on flooded tile floors.
    City of wee, and toilets you flush with a bucket of water. City of stool.
    City of ashy doorbells and pushpins,
    of anonymous dress form