Treasure Island

Romella Kitchens

(Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)

Rojos


Night dies.
The oracular “if, ” the universe
before it.
The Mexicans make figures with
nails in them.

Exacting torment.

Red, I will remember you.
How you chased a white rooster through
the street.

The dust caked your shoes.
Then, the rooster disappeared, became
a ghost.

The ghost of hunger sleeping
on floors.
Houses without people in them, rents
too high.
Night stops breathing.
Cross yourself into daylight.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Edited: Thursday, October 03, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

When growing up Hispanic cultures were of interest to me.There is a pathos in many Hispanic folkloric which is relentless, truthful and wise. It reaches out from the mesa into the expressive mainstream but knows its origens. They became a part of my subliminal expression.

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