Francis Santana
Cut Open
I saw him through a hole in my zinc fence,
leaning against a sandbox tree,
A reformist flag wrapped around his wound.
They had given him strong rum
To gather a crowd at the head of the bridge.
He cursed at an army truck,
And at a politician in a pale shirt.
Then, someone showed up with a sharp knife,
A handkerchief across his face―
The living image of a spent torch.
Everyone saw it from the closed shacks.
His massive wife lumbered across our yard.
The pebbles around her feet reminded me of ground goat―
A rooster crowed behind a far fence.
She turned about the rumored corpse,
Searching for change or a loose key inside his pockets.
My grandmother rushed him through our house.
On our television people danced away from white smoke.
My grandfather napped in his bedroom.
My uncle raged about strikes, Brugal and fried pork.
I fetched soap and rags in a washbowl.
A dog scurried through an alley whining in his hunger.
Someone built a rubber fire.
Glass bottles smashed against concrete walls.
The mob squealed,
I crawled under a table.
The feet and fire ants became a multitude―
A trail of ashes led into a septic hole.
No one cared about the pots boiling on the stove.
I craved ginger, honey, and dry bread.
Francis Santana is a Dominican American writer, educator, and ex-Pentecostal preacher from New York City. He recently earned his MFA from the Helen Zell Writer’s Program at the University of Michigan, where he was the recipient of a Hopwood Award in poetry, a Helen S. and John Wagner Prize, and a post-grad writing fellowship. You can find his work in such journals as Rattle, Spillway, Acentos Latinos, and elsewhere. Hear him tweet: @Francsantn
Return to November 2017 Edition
I saw him through a hole in my zinc fence,
leaning against a sandbox tree,
A reformist flag wrapped around his wound.
They had given him strong rum
To gather a crowd at the head of the bridge.
He cursed at an army truck,
And at a politician in a pale shirt.
Then, someone showed up with a sharp knife,
A handkerchief across his face―
The living image of a spent torch.
Everyone saw it from the closed shacks.
His massive wife lumbered across our yard.
The pebbles around her feet reminded me of ground goat―
A rooster crowed behind a far fence.
She turned about the rumored corpse,
Searching for change or a loose key inside his pockets.
My grandmother rushed him through our house.
On our television people danced away from white smoke.
My grandfather napped in his bedroom.
My uncle raged about strikes, Brugal and fried pork.
I fetched soap and rags in a washbowl.
A dog scurried through an alley whining in his hunger.
Someone built a rubber fire.
Glass bottles smashed against concrete walls.
The mob squealed,
I crawled under a table.
The feet and fire ants became a multitude―
A trail of ashes led into a septic hole.
No one cared about the pots boiling on the stove.
I craved ginger, honey, and dry bread.
Francis Santana is a Dominican American writer, educator, and ex-Pentecostal preacher from New York City. He recently earned his MFA from the Helen Zell Writer’s Program at the University of Michigan, where he was the recipient of a Hopwood Award in poetry, a Helen S. and John Wagner Prize, and a post-grad writing fellowship. You can find his work in such journals as Rattle, Spillway, Acentos Latinos, and elsewhere. Hear him tweet: @Francsantn
Return to November 2017 Edition