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245 Wortman Avenue
East New York, BrooklynForty years ago, I bled in this hallway.
Half-light dimmed the brick
like the angel of public housing.
That night I called and listened at every door:
in 1966, there was a war on television.Blood leaked on the floor like oil from the engine of me.
Blood rushed through a crack in my scalp;
blood foamed in both hands; blood ruined my shoes.
The boy who fired the can off my head in the street
pumped what blood he could into his fleeing legs.
I banged on every door for help, spreading a plague
of bloody fingerprints all the way home to apartment 14-F.Forty years later, I stand in the hallway.
The dim angel of public housing is too exhausted
to welcome me. My hand presses
against the door at apartment 14-F
like an octopus stuck to aquarium glass;
blood drums behind my ears.
Listen to every door: there is a war on television.-Martín Espada
del libro The Republic of Poetry
Emprendedor, artista de calle, aficionado a los medios sociales, fan de PHP, amante de psql, geek.
Brillante. No lo conocía. Me quedo con esta línea en mitad de la guerra televisiva:
“like an octopus stuck to aquarium glass”
Un abrazo, panita.
Es arrechirisísimo. Un tipo con ideas. Busca su página.
Lo pesqué en una revista de esas que uno desearía leer más. ‘like oil from the engine of me’ y la última línea me repicaron durante días.