For Francisco & Flor Larios
This poem is like a train station.
Down long staircases, escalators,
Are the platforms of coming, going,
Of tourists and businessmen, children
In strollers, their mothers staring
At the steel and glass of the ceiling.
Passengers are lined up, made to wait,
Boarding is not yet allowed. I take
A chocolate bar from my pocket
And offer you some—you break a piece
Smaller than mine and slip it into
Your mouth. The crowd moves down the staircase.
The train for Sevilla is leaving.
Through the window, fields, abandoned farms,
Trees stunted by sunlight and drought, roads
Leading off into the hills, towns where
Only a few old men and women
Sit and wait for each other to die.
But then Sevilla appears, a stone
Jigsaw puzzle of streets, shop windows,
Balcony of our friends’ apartment,
A familiar voice. This poem is
The train station of our arrival
And the station of their departure.
They are rare birds from Nicaragua,
Birds with bright plumage. They can tell when
The weather is changing. They listen
To the conversations at bus stops,
To the way candidates complain on
Television, blame immigrants from
Latin America, from China,
And even Africa. The weather
Was turning cold, too cold for birds with
Bright feathers, migrating birds who would
Die in a cage, their feathers covered
With shit and ugly words. So they left
For Sevilla, for churches and feasts,
For palaces with gardens where birds
Can hide in the dark green of lemon
And orange trees, where Machado played
As a child, where the air is sweetened
By orange blossoms and the fountains
Tell stories to the sky and black earth.
This poem is a train station where
We meet our friends gone to Sevilla,
Who walk together in the evening,
Their bright plumage reflecting the last
Rays of the Andalusian sun.
Published in The High Window, Dec. 13, 2025
