Domingos callados
for Chico and Loreto


One of the beautiful things about Chile is that it is still
a country of quiet Sundays. The bread sits bored
in its basket, the microbus passes slowly
in the hopes of convincing us not to walk.

What mystery is beneath your fingernails that you bite at them so?

Here in the home of the brave, I try sometimes
to make my Sundays quiet, but that which is brittle
burns at the touch. The bread sits humming
in the refrigerator, all the tocs give way to tics.

In Chile it was just toc toc toc,
but let's not talk of that now, let's
paste artificial sunsets into our old photos.
This is one more poem about Chile,
nervous, staring at your hands,
and this is one more ear you'll never hear.
posted by Adam at 11:20 AM [edit]

Why they won

They won because they were always the fastest,
because they had runner's calves that sprinted past you
as you wound your way troubled from tree to aging tree,
as you discovered the thin taste of a lie as it passed through
your perfect teeth. They won on the ground, in the air,
for always being faster. And what were you left with?
The sense that you were always watching. The knowledge
of the non-winners. At the finish line I'm still waiting for you.
I don't want the winners, I don't want to win, I want you.
posted by Adam at 11:42 PM [edit]