Father sabastion is standing atop the thick
adobe arch of the hacienda’s gate, in the center
beneath the higher of three white capping curves
of masonry. his right hand sweeps toward the clay
courtyard in a gesture of divine indifference
initiated by the same whatever which inspires
his expression of imitated rapture.
his left hand is pulling the hilt
of a sword toward his heart; long since pierced
by the blade exiting under the buttocks flap of his armor.
all this relief in but two inches of extending mortar
releases the gaze of the hombre under the sombrero.
his one eye strains open beneath the straw rim, and briefly
follows the upward-forward jerking motion of a shape
like a web-thin silk handkerchief moving from the gate
to the shadows of the alley where he siestas. his half-conscious
vision slurs with the sound of the plaster wall humming
the introduction to the tonight Show, and the handkerchief
passes through his ears as he helps father sabastion down the stairs,
into the cellar and onto his cot. they both know the father is dying
in the flush of emotion where terror and tears become certainty
uttering his last smile
the father whispers acceptance in a question —
“did you ever hear the story about
the board that burned down the house?”
A sombrero falls to the floor atop a yellow handkerchief
And a tear falls from the eye of father sabastion
As massive raindrops pound the courtyard dust to mud.
Irrational As A Premonition
By Koda | © Koda 1998