Friday, December 15, 2006

Letter to My Professor’s Father

Last September when I thought you well and living I sent a letter to your daughter. And now I am sorry I wrote about travelling and my new dog. That I didn’t somehow intuit your passing. Today in the coffeeshop line I hugged Magdelana and half your soul. Her fingers bending to my shoulder blades and me breathing in all that rough, Argentinian perfume and Bourges. Her black hair straight against her ears still refuses to gray, her jawbone tight and resolute with no hint of fresh dug earth or quiver. But I see monuments to you in her midnight mass eyes, tiny puddles that lift and sink back to cemeteries and the bristle of your mustache. I don’t know if she believes in God or if believing in Him will help her get back to you. So I can only hold fast to the hope that God does not judge the distance like we do on maps and in telescopes.
may the road rise up.

photograph by mauricio arana, worker


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