Falling off the soft sound,
breaking the painted window to let in
the scent of gangrene; to see clearly
the toad writhing in a snake’s gorge,
and the carnations
in the buttonholes of bankers.
And you should know
how Jose Cisneros died in the dark hut
to the clicking of rosaries;
lungs choked with broken rock
and no spare coins to close the eyes.
And I could tell you
how Felicidad Consuelo and Maria Benavides
were raped in the cells.
But you should know all this
from the cries of desolate birds,
muteness of dark-leafed trees.