Pablo Otavalo​​
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For I can’t and I won’t

                                                                                                                            ​“At the outset. Like a fallen dragon”
                                                                                                                                                 — Tomas Tranströmer
              What is this ghost I am                    in a moonlit kitchen?

        What is this less I am?

When we sent ourselves through interstellar space
we sent small hinges and brackets,
right angles and machined dodecagons.

                                  Why do we fail to imagine alien satellites? Revenants?

The whisper of us. A crow’s pile of dry bones.

              In a moonlit kitchen.             At a magnificent speed.

Why can’t we build a rocket ship so large as to resemble an entire planet
of cavernous seas and a windshield of atmosphere, powered only by the mutual
drag of a gravity well.

                                            At a magnificent speed
      a thermonuclear heart the right distance away
to provide all the trinkets of heat and light

              If only we could build a little tin can terrarium and toss it
              from terra on rendezvous with Andromeda. We light

such small bonfires of cities.

              Why strap ourselves to rockets              when our Ark is already the world
              already the mountain ridge and desert’s edge             already the last of our kind.

At a magnificent speed                  pulses of light across strands of glass
carry our aspirations and bad news              in a moonlit kitchen.

                                Couldn’t we fall out of ourselves at a steady velocity
                            through the core of the earth, pillars of magma,
                       seas of molten stone?

                                            In a moonlit kitchen

              the thunder of intercontinental economy jet liners,
              hives of dying bees.

           At a magnificent speed   trinkets of heat and light
will blot the sun and poison the potable water.

              Why can’t we build a rocket ship    an escape fantastical pod
           like a modernist coffin               when we cast ourselves through interstellar space
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                                    like stones into the ocean.
Leí Cien Años de Soledad en la casa de mi abuela 1

The door had a heavy latch with a keyhole
facing the landing, edged in plump green begonias
dashed with pink and red. Emerald hummingbirds
hovered over open flowers as my grandmother
watered her garden, descending the stairs.

Once, I remember her walking up the courtyard
in a long black skirt, a white blouse. Slender
as a broom. In one swift motion she closed
her hands above her head and caught a bird
midair. A blackbird with gold bands
that flashed when she set it free.
​
Snow fell slowly over a field
when my grandmother died.



1 I read One Hundred Years of Solitude in my grandmother’s house
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Pablo Otavalo is from Cuenca, Ecuador, and now lives and writes in Illinois. A recipient of the 2013 and 2014 Illinois Emerging Writers Competition prize, his work has appeared in Poetry Magazine, RHINO Poetry, Structo Magazine, No Tender Fences: An Anthology of Immigrant & First-Generation American Poetry, Matter, Levitate among other publications. We must find what we revere in each other.