For José Arcadio
“Hoc est simplicisimum: porque estoy loco.”
—José Arcadio Buendía in Cien años de soledad, GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ
You and I, we know what it’s like,
our bodies tied to the trunk
of the chestnut tree
while the better part of ourselves
is left to wander through the house
of infinite rooms filled with the same
wicker chairs and wrought iron beds,
afraid to close any of the doors.
And sometimes I think I, too,
have heard the voices of the dead.
Like the sound of small wings
unfurling in the night,
their words fill me with wind
when I forget to breathe
and always when this rain
of yellow flowers falls.
