Another Crossing The river sloughs off mist, elk approach its banks for a drink. Moon perched in the mezzanine of the night. Dogs clamor for each other miles away. I settle onto this stone seat trying hard to see anything but the men stepping into the rushing water, each holding a small bag over his head. Striding into the silence I've embraced. What crossings can be made when already in Arkansas? One of them falls hard into the White River, foot probably catching on some rock's jag. Those in front keep walking, those behind go around his brief thrashing below the surface. His mouth opens with ¡estoy bien! when he rises, which disturbs the elk who look up so that they might study him with me, so that we all might behold the man who is suddenly here, who, of course, resembles my father, droplets tumbling from his creased brow back into the current. He blows snot from each nostril and runs his fingers through the hair almost landing on his shoulders as it does in my father's first photo ID, taken in Mexico, listing the wrong birthday, catching him as a teen, looking like this guy hauling his hand across the surface of the water. He works hard to match pace, impossible, like my dad in the White River, crossing twenty-odd years after the fact. Who needs dreams when I've got eyes. The others emerge by the shore, disappear into the woods, refuse to wait. The elk and me, welcome committee. A stranger climbs into the bramble where he hollers, gaining ground on the group. Sight and Sound Roxie Theater, San Francisco I am led into the dark cinema for a restored print of a major work by David Lynch he speaks to us in a previously recorded introduction every now and again I try to turn my head an imperceptible degree to catch you in the glow I am taking stock of how I feel suspicious but of what there's a woman who makes occasional smart comments there's a man eating chocolate and popcorn in fistfuls your hand opens for potential touching holding your perfume in my mouth your leather skirt squeaks in the seat the sun's laboring across the finish line when we leave the theater we walk toward the bar where I'll lose my wallet in the film a man with a powdered face says hello at a party in one of those big LA houses he says hello on the phone too he likes to watch people sleep the main character becomes someone else driven by formless desires I am afraid I am alive I am turning twenty-six today at an auto shop the young man he has become is pulled or manipulated between the forces of duty the forces of desire cars are lifted hoods popped some force tells him come to the desert I am still pulling myself apart when you order cocktails I am still A Mexican American Novel The novel includes a protagonist with a mysterious scar slashed across his scrotum as well as numerous references to tax fraud, bruised fruits, and last names. A year-in-the-life type of tale. In a pivotal September scene, he asks his father whether anything weighs more than madness. (Readers will know the man's frown counts for an answer.) Then a flashback to when the father crushed his five-year-old son's fingers with a rising car window. A chapter entitled "Robert Hayden Was Rarely Wrong." The boy wanders from light source to light source: big moons, small lanterns, candles, burnt-out bulbs hanging on grocery store ceilings, and the various deep purples of a beloved's bedroom. I'm working out how he'll talk to lovers, but his legs will shake, bare but for goosebumps rising around his knees. In the first paragraph, the boy presses a guitar into a cloth case. By the end of the year, he'll understand what symbolizes great human suffering and what of the ordinary self remains. Excerpted from At the Park on the Edge of the Country: Poems by Austin Araujo All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
