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I dream of war. I dream of poets being poets
along a riverbank in a war. There are no books, no prizes,
and they pack food in boxes: cereal, rice, dried fruit,
bread, and beans, each in a plastic bag,
for they must row across the river to gather. They must leave
their parapets of three stone walls open to the land
away from water, and open to the sky. They are dreamless
in the dream and wake to row every day. When they bend
to fill their boxes or sweep bare ground, they are faceless,
and it is only hands and arms that row, only hands
that open palms up to read the air. If you are one
of them and stay behind, you see the broad, brown river
and a face, finally, across the water, too small
even for a child, and there is time before you hear the sound
of bloodless hands, a clap that starts the song.
©2003, James Cervantes
James Cervantes has published two chapbooks, two books of poetry, and is editor of The Salt River Review. More of his poetry can be found at his Web site.
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