after Concha Mendez (1898-1986)

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the oars
your arms

spine
the keel

your rudder
words

 
Your voice, siren poet
cannot draw men aside from war;
cannot bring one lone sailor
from your womb’s quiet harbour
safely through the breakers.

oars
arms

spine
keel

rudder
words

Concha, I call your shell up from the library stacks;
hold it to my ear;
hear you whispering
from Mexico’s dark beaches
all you lost.

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