Are the clouds really moving, Tía,
if a man hangs in Pepin Park?
I want to believe that all of us
see a man hangs in Pepin Park,
see shoeshine like tats on his hands,
see hands holding more than shoes
perhaps a woman from Hispaniola,
a woman of Bayahibe Rose.
Are the clouds really moving, Tía,
if a man hangs in Pepin Park
if laws render brothers and sisters
stateless? You said: Faith, Always.
I want to have faith
the South and DR are not fingers
from the same hand,
not a father and son stitching borders
of sugar and blood
at the cost of men like Tulile
hanging in Ercilia Pepin Park.
Are the clouds really moving, Tía,
if Jacque Viau’s ghost chants
Oh Mississippi?
The landscape of a man hangs
over the island like a bodement,
clouds pass through Tulile.
Tia, if you call: Llévame a la Gloria
mañana a las nueve.
I’ll respond: Que por el espacio
caminan las nubes.
Mammatus clouds cover the island,
Blue-grey lobes the sun tries to pierce.
Someone has set the cat among the pigeons.
Call: Tomorrow at nine, take me
to heaven. I’ll respond:
Provided that the clouds are moving
moving over Tulile’s body in Pepin Park,
shoeshine like tats on his hands,
hands holding more than shoes,
holding a woman of Bayahibe Rose.
Contributor Notes
Ines P. Rivera Prosdocimi’s poetry collection, Love Letter to an Afterlife, will be published by Black Lawrence Press in 2018. Her work has appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Cold Mountain Review, Kweli, Nimrod, Poet Lore, and Witness. She is completing a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at the University of Maryland. She teaches at the University of Hartford.
