¿Cómo será la muerte?
—Claribel Alegría, Sala de Transito
The view from my room is a backhoe.
Fingers expected to rip cement
instead caress fresh earth.
How life-like the arm,
Caterpillar ballet for the deaf.
A sewer of blue caskets,
orange-vested priests, signing:
today you are with us in paradise.
Tomorrow the same old shit.
The windowpanes here are scream proof.