[Newspoetry] 3 poems by Dionisio D. Martínez

[William Gillespie]

Three Poems:

     The Prodigal Son jumps bail

     After hovering, after spying like an insect on the screen door, he
asks if perhaps
     there's a place for him at the table. He knows the answer, but
likes to hear them say
     it. Their lungs and then their chests and finally their mouths fill
with all the things they'd
     like to tell him. There was a war, they admit, although that's not
what they want to
     say. There was famine. The house fell and was rebuilt at least
three times, always on
     a different site. Tap water is potable for the first time in years.
In the wake of the
     latest scandal, they tell him, the new government has maintained
its innocence,
     blaming the Constitution, blaming the scholars and "their gross
misinterpretation of
     our laws." They bring him up to date on all the deaths in the
family, the marriages, the
     births. Someone starts to talk about alleged disappearances, but is
soon interrupted
     and the subject is closed. There is only one answer and even the
bread crumbs stand
     at attention when it comes.


     The Prodigal Son and the two Sinatras

     The first time he becomes aware of the voice, some are saying that
popular music is
     at its nadir. Transition tends to have this effect on people.
Nelson Riddle is no longer
     writing the arrangements. If there's a new audience, it can't sort
through the
     complexities of a big band, the lush trombones, the way a soloist
can play his way
     out of the chart without ever leaving it. The early voice, crooning
with the Dorsey
     outfit, comes to his attention much later. This voice is the
trombone, the solo that
     comes face to face with the night and comes out unscathed. Like
Monk's hands on
     the keyboard, it stops in places where one would expect it to
become a victim of its
     own inventions. But it wanders back nonchalantly and you forget the
pauses that
     make it possible. He doesn't know how to reconcile the two voices
before they run
     into each other, both of them losing their timing on the way, both
of them trying to
     catch up with the present. They can't conceive of irretrievable
losses, of hearts so still
     that they're no longer susceptible to music. One voice doesn't hear
the other
     struggling like a cloud on a clear day. Neither one suspects that
they will meet here,
     and these are not compassionate times.


     The Prodigal Son considers a diplomatic career

     Out of respect for the elders of the village where he finds himself
sober for the first
     time in years, he shows reverence for their gods and doesn't laugh
at their icons.
     They believe him and make him a holy man. Fearing that the
villagers might be
     contagious, and thinking only of himself, he seals their wounds and
concocts potions
     for their pains. They trust him and make him a healer. To show his
vulnerability, he
     bathes in a small pond with the men, eats from their unwashed
plates, sleeps with
     their women. As they parade by his bed, the villagers dry the cold
sweat from his
     forehead and call him a martyr. He tells them that his condition is
temporary. When
     he regains his strength and gets up, they call him a prophet. He
predicts that from
     time to time, in their sleep, the women will hear the voices of the
gods. The elders tell
     him that the women have always heard the voices of the gods. They
call him a fraud
     and make him chief.