Is it the Garcia Lorca kind faithful as a cricket's tune about a boy fishing in a pool of rainwater for his lost voice praying it'll sing back so he can wear it on his finger again like a wedding ring? Maybe it's the anti-parakeet Nicanor Parra kind remorseful as a memoir that survived four wars half a dozen sexually transmitted depressions insomnia- inspired hallucinations and a dedication to its remaining readers last count forty-five asking them to burn each page upon reading memories it had tried to capture unless it's the Paz kind not Paz-be-with-you of olden days difficult now to digest Paz or any Zense of peace without Belano or Bolaño pearly-gate-crashing in an Impala slingshooting saints out of their poses harping on angels reciting bad poetry aloud anything to disturb the last of the angry gods' siesta atop a mountain of ashes once rich without meaning.
From Drive-by Vigils by R. Zamora Linmark. Copyright © 2012 by R. Zamora Linmark. Reprinted with permission of Hanging Loose Press. All rights reserved.