Garc & amp - The lesser tragedy of death

Published by Akashic Books 2010 Cristina Garca ePUB ISBN-13: 978-1-936-07079-4 ISBN-13: 978-1-936070-01-5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2009939083 All rights reserved Black Goat c/o Akashic Books PO Box 1456 New York, NY 10009 info@akashicbooks.com www.akashicbooks.com
For Paqui
AcknowledgmentsMil gracias to Dean Rader for his generosity and brilliance. Thank you to Donna Seaman and to Triquarterly for publishing Twenty-Nine Palms, and to Daniel Shapiro for including Spell, Brownstone, Twenty-Nine Palms, Namesake, and What You Dream in Review 78, Literature and Arts of the Americas. Also, my gratitude to Craig Perez and Jennifer Reimer of Achiote Press for their early support of my poetry. And, of course, un gran abrazo to Chris Abani, friend without peer.
Every Angel is terrible. And yet, alas,I sing to you Rainer Maria Rilke
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A salon, or sunlit rotunda (our old dining room?).

You come speak to me. People who knew you come too, whispering things. This business of biography is a sham. Thin green brocade of words. Knots of grief.
That you can speak to dogs.
That you can speak to dogs.

That they dont listen to you. That women are impenetrable, except for the obvious. That children should like you. That its possible to be a hero. That the good things in life are bad for you: mothers, malted milk balls, cocaine. That there is a God but Hes ignored you.

That a family awaits you. That you suffer for cheapness. (Are you listening, Dad?) That one morning youll wake up dead. And that will be without pain.
To recover the lost wealth of boyhood, to bait you with the magic of ordinary days.
Our childhood is dead.

Nothing is left but this: your words against mine.
That Mami asked Quin es? when you were put in her arms. That her teeth fell out. That she got fat and depressed. That three children in thirty-five months was too much. Its not that she rejected you, but this: No one thought she was pretty anymore.No one looked at her twice.
This was never you firstborn; daughter, time standing still for pure awe.

Celebrations and party dresses, professional photographs. When you were born, the revolution soured and the deluxe world we lived in was crumbling. Who had time to welcome one small boy?
You gave away everything: your candy and rapt attention, the marbles on your Chinese checkerboard. I winced at your misplaced trust. Why couldnt you toughen up? You were a boy, werent you? Where did your gentleness come from? Mornings you woke up cheerful in your crib.
We got to working on your finger snapping first.
We got to working on your finger snapping first.

Until you did it without missing a beat. Fling out your elbows!Turn your knees to rubber! Like your life depended on it. We made you believe you looked cool, hermano. Twitchy, pint-sized swinger, little Cuban Elvis in short pants and a cowlick. This was your first, your easiest step. Now, are you ready to do the twist?
You wore your suit like a scratchy blanket, little bow tie and jacket, perfectly creased long pants, a crew cut. Now, are you ready to do the twist?
You wore your suit like a scratchy blanket, little bow tie and jacket, perfectly creased long pants, a crew cut.

Crayons and Superman lunch box in hand, you took your place with us. Mami made sure we looked good on the outside, that the world would never point to us and say less than. Who knew the real damage was done on the inside?
You begged me to teach you to ride a two-wheeler. All the other kids knew how. Youre too short, I said. You cant reach the pedals. Wait till you grow.

I dont wanna wait till I grow, you said. Please, okay? Please. I knew better but I sat you high on the seat, feet dangling, hands barely grabbing the handlebars. Whatever you do, hold on, I advised. Ready? You nodded. (We were atop Danger Hill.) Go! Your tiny body flew, bump after bump, until an eternity later, you crashed. (We were atop Danger Hill.) Go! Your tiny body flew, bump after bump, until an eternity later, you crashed.

Cut and bleeding, you cried: But I held on! Yes you did, I said.
By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea! Mami worked for days on your costume, a 1920s bathing suit that came to your kneesstriped, sleeveless, with a scooped-out neck. She made you practice singing out loud so youd be sure to stand out. You and me, you and me, oh how happy well be! Thats my son! Mami pointed you out to everyone. I made his costume myself! How she clapped and laughed watching you Charleston in your fake moustache. I love to be beside your side, beside the sea I saw Mami hug you that night. I love to be beside your side, beside the sea I saw Mami hug you that night.

I saw you, shy and pleased.
The one time we saw you play we were fooled by your uniform, your Little Leaguers physique. We expected you to belt that ball right out of the park. In the bleachers, we screamed your name till the other players families gave us the evil eye. It wasnt just a game to us. We were the immigrant kids from that hijacking island.

We had something to prove. You swung hard and fast, missing the ball altogether. A boy on first, another on third. You could win this game, win it. Your stance was good, bat high, but the ball flew right by you. Easy out, easy out, the opposing team chanted.

I joined in, sotto voce. It was over, and everyone knew it. You lost, and then you kept on losing.
We shamed you into leaving, said you stank up the bathroom, sprayed you with air freshener until you choked. Youd sneak off to E.J. Korvettes to shit or wait till morning recess at Catholic school where nobody could blame just you.

Years later I learned this word from a shrink: encopretic. It means holding things in to bursting. It means carrying the rage within.
To unloose the lost grace between us. Bleach it milky white.
You returned from that summer in France so tanned and buff that the Brooklyn girls took notice.

And it took a lot for the Brooklyn girls to take notice. You were a god from spearfishing the Riviera: a sexy new language, microscopic red bathing trunks that no American boy would dare to wear. The phone was ringing off the hook. As sister-of-Adonis, I was courted too. Gave the lovelorn advice on their chances with you. Oui, you were hot.

How we reveled in that brief August glory.
When the architects son passed you that joint, the coarse, hot smoke warmed your chest, whispered: Good boy, nice boy. What you desperately needed to hear. Its unfashionable, probably irrational, to think one joint undid you at twelve, led to homelessness and crack. Isnt that something a Republican would say?
To turn back the clock, shield us from terror. For this, I would give my last song.