Pedro
grew up in Guatemala, surrounded by a very literary family -- he
clearly remembers his grandfather reciting verses of Quevedo by heart.
Pedro chose a different path, and became a mathematician. He now
teaches mathematics at Salem State University, in Massachusetts. But
recently, poetry came back to pull him in. It all started with
palindromes, and soon enough he found myself writing sonnets (in
Spanish, first, then in English). This is one of his first attempts at
liberating himself from form.
earrings, a black hat, an overcoat
to cook for them? A drop of water stretching
down from the ceiling
of the station threatens
to fall. Her neck is still bent low. She's svelte
and strong, the type my father
would have called
distinguished.
I never watch soap operas,
I'd rather read,
and I don't talk that much
at all.
The train arrives, and one by one
of her valises dragging languidly
behind. She is the last to sit. The door
shuts. A ray of steel begins to rise
above the city, headed north. She stands
and glares at us with tears. I'm desperate here.
This poem is
inspired by a striking woman I saw in Atlanta. Whether she had recently
lost her home or begun experiencing mental illness is unclear to me,
but I believe that whatever it was, it had to have happened very
recently.
