by José Antonio Rodriguez
The grownups sat on their long chair called couch
And talked of the weather, the dew of the blossoms’ morning,
And what might happen to us, the children.
Mom said don’t leave the house, not without
Papers. Do I dare speak of the papers hoarded
In corners? How many more poems can you write
About a face spackled with fear before
It holds you? The reader aiming, too.
Let us find a charcoaled corner, you and I,
Where we will lay these words. Leave children
To sleep in windowless rooms. The mother
biting a prayer. The country weaving a tomb.