107.3: Francisco Guevara:: On the day of the dead, & Aubade 107

On the day of the dead,

we made it our business to mishear
another’s passing as a march towards
the chorus of wanting to unmake

a night closer to a mistress. Can’t we
tell the lies of ourselves without having
to utter what was from a larger breath?

We praised without having to hold to-
morrow before the ends of a father’s body
as I swelled from lines of a coral reef

from the ghosts along a sea. I became
porcelain with every stroke inherited from
every father’s need to drown a setting

sun into the blueness of a sea, and hours
I willed from a shore by grasping waves
with a conch shell: On another shore lies

the we that washed up my plea as praise
scripted for someone who voted without
wanting to know who won between

the day, the dead and the lies of a father,
or news in my palms a boat I could follow
before being forced to surrender today.


Did you mangle the living out of her
enough to see the foxhole he was

digging become a snow globe he shook
himself? After his body was flailing

to think the noun in, he stepped into
her left then another’s left to rename

a street after their father, who was born
unbeknown to their desire to shed him.

Did you mangle the living out of he
who shook from having to say the same

thing again and again? She praised
a streetlight—waltzing its refusal to read

how he read bridges in possession while
his tongue paved what remained of her.