That flight of stairs, a tableful of broken glass,
the chandelier an animal huddled
beyond the open door, its death/dearth of spirit a cry.
That slant of his lips, of his arms
caught in a frivolous thresher,
amazing and sarcastic in the night.
That night we were calm, unweeping,
the opposite of children. His hands up,
his hands up, an immigrant in his own life.
Beauty and grace, her gutting fearlessness
staying every cop on that block,
guns hungry for his heart, the softness of skull.
Tell me to serve forgiveness rare,
the clenched teeth of it abandonment, the retreat of god,
loosening the jaws of a great beast that lowes and lowes.
— Crystal Vega-Huerta, “Unweeping”