Sergio Ortiz
Only the Rumor
I, who have rarely seen sanity,
or a caravan of Siberian huskies stroll
with their pack through soft white snow,
have no appreciation for winter's twilight-silence,
or the ruckus of grizzlies ravaging
my provisions.
I ask:  Is there anyone
willing to put their hand in place of mine
on the chopping block, or their signature
on paper to demand investigations
into all that has been stolen
on my passage through this life? 
I have not seen tenderness
nor do I feel excitement upon observing
the child fed from the safety of its mother's hands.
Only the rumors of the existence of distant cities
where harsh winters outlast serene summers
accelerate the rhythm of my blood. 
That chill is mine. 
I, who have rarely seen reason, have played
with water and snow.  I've wrapped them around
my legs, given them form with my hands like a lover. 
I, who am fed-up with listening to wolves
and sleeping under willows, no longer tremble
when they throw down my door to take me
where neither water nor snow exists. 
Do you understand?  It is nothing more
than a short visit to the crying room
of a psychiatric hospital, a show
to impress the animal
that sleeps beneath
the sheets.