Guerrillero
Hernando Rico Sanchez
Diane Tucker
he has taught his ear to hear the latch click
he can hear it now at will, conjure it up
real as his pristine, unmuddied boots
and is becoming afraid that if a key
were actually to rattle in that lock
he’d shrug it off as his hallucination
and misbelieve your long-awaited call
speech, there is none
so much a listener has he become
that sound is something others make, not him
words jounce and canter now inside his brain
and when they hurt enough, and need the whip
he gives it them
beats them into poems
he then thrusts out the window
like ashes they litter the lawn, like leaves unswept
until you pick them up, claim them your own
pass them off as your work and he hears you
reading every one aloud – deep treachery
to plagiarize your self
who, in the dusty hallway, shuts his eyes
slips underneath his coat and, wordless, dies